


For God’s Sake Hold Your Tongue, and Let Me Love

by nu_breed



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Sails S04e10 spoilers, Black Sails s02e05 spoilers, Character Study, Class Differences, Class Issues, First Time, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 06:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14611563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/pseuds/nu_breed
Summary: A peer never begs or pleads, his father had once said, that would be vulgar. Thomas had realised that he was not, and never would be, his father. That hewasvulgar, his base desires too shocking for a man like his father to consider. Thomas wanted men with their beards and their rough hands and their heat, and he might marry but he would always want to be with men.Or, the story of Thomas Hamilton, and those he met from his first love to his last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a character who occupied so little screentime Thomas is a source of fascination for me. I wanted to explore who he was and who shaped his sexuality on his way to meeting James. And of course a good chunk of the story explores James and Thomas as well!
> 
> Thanks to arysteia for such a brilliant, incisive beta and for helping me wrangle this thing from start to finish. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> The title is from John Donne's _The Canonization_.
> 
> Edit: AO3 was being buggy last night and I accidentally triple-posted. Sorry to anyone who read the first chapter with the screwed-up italics.

It was a cool June morning in Thomas’ eighteenth year when he fell from his horse and broke his arm.

Leontes, his stallion, had been a birthday present from his uncle, four years ago, just after Thomas had begun his second year at Eton. He was a beautiful horse, mostly white with a tar-black streak on his muzzle that looked as if someone had stroked it with a paintbrush, and more black extending from knees to fetlocks. Thomas loved holidays if only for the time he was able to spend with Leontes, far away from the noise and distractions of others.

It was not as if he did not enjoy the company of people. He had had a great many friends at Eton, and even two or three that he would refer to as close friends. He loved nothing more than sitting around with Peter, Henry, and Jonathan, arguing about who was a better writer, Shakespeare or Jonson, and whether Hobbes' _Leviathan_ was brilliant or a poor cousin to _The Prince_. And yet there were times when even spending time with his closest friends felt like an immense effort, irritating and exhausting. It hadn't been obvious to others, or if it had they had never broached the issue with him. Thomas had always managed to maintain a polite, cheerful facade regardless of what lay under the surface.

It was those times that made his holidays in High Wycombe such a respite, particularly when he was able to extricate himself from the house and its inhabitants and take Leontes out for the day. The morning of the accident, he packed a bag with apples, beer, and a quarter of a cold meat pie, along with the leather-bound copy of _The Misanthrope_ in French that Peter had given him for his birthday. He had planned to ride down to the lake early and spend the morning reading. Leontes, however, had other ideas. Soon after Thomas mounted him and they left the stables, something caused him to startle. Mid-gallop, Leontes whinnied and stopped stock-still, rearing up on his front legs and throwing Thomas into the air. There was barely any time to react before Thomas hit the ground, his arm under him. It was a strange sensation, almost as if time had simultaneously sped up but also slowed down. It was as if he was able to watch the incident from outside his body, as a spectator, powerless to stop it. 

As he hit the ground, he heard the violent snap of his bones. It was like the branches that would break when Jenkins was pruning the ash trees in the garden. Thomas had always found it fascinating that such a strong thing could break so easily, both so sturdy and fragile at the same time. Bones, it turned out, were ridiculously fragile when someone's weight fell on top of them. He’d never broken a bone before, and he hoped that if he lived through the experience, he never would again. The pain was excruciating, ice-cold warring with white-hot, an overloading of sensation that flooded Thomas’ brain so that he could not focus on anything other than the agony of it all. He prayed that he would pass out; at least that would have been a reprieve from the relentless pain. But God was not listening to him. 

Thomas was vaguely aware that he was groaning, or perhaps it was screaming, it was difficult for him to tell. Again, it was as if he was observing from the outside, watching and listening as he and others made noises that were muted, like his ears were jammed up with cotton. He could make out others shouting in the background: Mr. Molesworthy, the stable manager, and his father. When his father began yelling for someone to fetch the doctor, everything came back into focus. Nothing was muted and Thomas could hear very clearly. The worst thing about this newfound state of complete consciousness, however, was the pain, which had become so unbearable that he began to cry. At first just the odd salty tear trickled down, but once he started, he knew it would be impossible to stop and soon his chest was heaving with the force of his sobs and his cheeks were wet.

His father bent down on one knee and hissed in his ear, "For God's sake, Thomas, pull yourself together."

He could not breathe well enough to form a retort so he glared at his father through tear-blurred eyes, imagining what he would say had he not been writhing in agony on the ground. 

"I know it hurts, but you will just have to endure it. You're a man now, not a child."

He inhaled slowly through his nose and despite the tightness in his chest he managed to control his breath enough to spit out, "Thank you, Father. I know."

Power and reputation were the two things his father valued the most in the world. Thomas certainly hadn't inherited his tendency to react emotionally from Lord Alfred Hamilton. Which was not to say that his father never displayed emotion, he did, but Thomas could not recall a single time where he had seen his father react with any feeling that one might discern as positive. He understood completely what it meant to be his father's son, or at least to maintain the artifice of being him. His pain did not outweigh his father's expectations. Thomas squeezed his eyes tight and tried to think of anything other than the torture being enacted on his body. His thoughts immediately went to George Farnsworth. 

George was unlike anyone Thomas had ever known, utterly charming when surrounded by adults, but when the two of them were alone, completely without propriety. Thomas could barely think for the sharpness of the pain, his head swimming with it, but he tried to focus on George's face, his deep blue eyes and wheat-blonde hair, and the way he threw his head back when he laughed at his own jokes, especially the filthy ones: his mouth wide open and his belly shaking.

They had known each other since they were small children. Thomas’ mother, Charlotte, had been one of the few girls fortunate enough to attend boarding school at Lauges House. George's mother, Anne, had also been a pupil and the two of them remained friends through marriage, childbirth, and the death of George's father, Richard. When Richard died, the Farnsworths had moved to High Wycombe, close enough for the boys to visit during their summer and Christmas holidays from Winchester and Eton. 

"It is just as well you are not at the same school," his mother had said one summer when the two of them were being particularly rambunctious, "I am sure you would both be expelled and bring shame on your families."

While it had been in jest, Thomas was not altogether convinced that it wasn't the truth. 

Being lost in memories of George and the mischief they so often got up to had worked to ground him. He was no longer sobbing, or even crying. The pain was still there, but it provided a distraction that allowed for moments of respite. Thomas had been unaware of time passing as he lay there with his eyes closed, but when Dr. Llewelyn came to examine him, he realised it must have been a while. 

The laudanum the doctor gave him tasted bitter on his tongue, and soon after that things were much better. It was an odd feeling: his body both heavy and light all at once. No longer aware of the pain, Thomas couldn't help but smile. He thought about Leontes for the first time, wondering if his horse was hurt too.

"Can someone check?" He asked the doctor, "Can someone check if Leontes is all right?"

His mouth felt dry and claggy as if he had been dining on dirt and the last thing he remembered was looking down at his riding breeches which were horribly stained with grass and mud, and possibly ruined.

The first time he awoke, his mother told him that the doctor had come and set his arm with bandages and a wooden splint. Thomas tried to talk but his words came out slurred and slow and his mother stroked his brow, telling him to go back to sleep. He didn't want to, he felt as if he was being dragged down into sleep against his wishes. He struggled to stay awake, trying to talk again, but the drug and his own exhaustion were too powerful to fight for long.

It felt like a dream, those first few days that Thomas drifted in and out of consciousness, never fully aware of how much time had passed, but always aware of how much it hurt when the laudanum wore off and he was violently thrust into reality. 

"You were very lucky," his father had said on one of his brief visits, "It could have been a lot worse."

"Forgive me, Father, but being confined to bed in pain all summer with an arm that must remain immobile seems like the opposite of luck."

"Always the spoiled ingrate." His father's face had turned red. "Perhaps you would care to visit the hospital of your namesake, St Thomas. I am sure the patients there would be more than happy to spend a summer in bed if it meant gaining back their lost limbs."

"That seems," Thomas had said, "to be what one might call false equivalency." The glare that his father had directed towards him made Thomas bite the inside of his cheek, the slight rush of pain stopping any other ill-advised words from falling out. The thrashings his father had given him in the past for speaking out of turn were still etched in Thomas’ memory, and the switch biting into the skin on his bare backside was not a sensation he wished to feel again.

"I don't know why you insist on endlessly provoking him," his mother had said later, "it's as if you enjoy making him angry."

Thomas had said nothing, staring at the crack in his wall by the wardrobe. He wondered how long it had been there, imperfect and jagged and ignored by everyone.

***

Finally, after more than a month had passed, Thomas was allowed to get out of bed, and sit in the large chair by the window, his arm having healed enough from rest and bloodletting for the muscles and bones to knit themselves back together. He tried not to think about the bloodletting procedures; they were painful and had made him swoon like a lady whose corset was too tight. It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny with a slight breeze that made the trees sway just a little. While it was a relief to be out of that bed, it almost made it worse, being able to gaze longingly at the world outside, knowing that he was still practically a prisoner, confined to his own room for weeks, perhaps months on end.

After another excruciating two days during which Thomas had barely been able to think about anything other than the hollow, empty feeling in his chest, finally, _finally_ his mother decreed that he would be allowed to have visitors. It had been so long since he had seen anyone who wasn't his parents, the doctor or the servants, and when George's face appeared in the doorway: brightly smiling, he wanted to cry from relief.

"Once I finally leave this godforsaken room I will never complain of being bored again," he vowed. They sat by the window and played a game of chess, which Thomas, uncharacteristically, was losing terribly at. 

"That bad?" George took his bishop and stared at Thomas with mock seriousness, "but I would have thought you'd love to spend all this time with Lady Charlotte, you frightful Mummy's boy."

He snorted in response. "I've been contemplating throwing myself in the lake rather than wasting another day being fussed over, actually. I honestly feel as if I'll go mad if I'm cooped up any longer."

"Check."

Thomas groaned. "See? I'm so depressed I'm losing to you of all people in a game of bloody chess. It's embarrassing."

George whacked him gently on the knee. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't hold it over you, my dear invalid."

He smiled. Having George there made him happier than he had been in weeks. Boredom, for Thomas, was like being smothered. He had never liked being confined to the same space for too long. It was the thing he hated the most about boarding school, that sense of being trapped and the inability to escape his surroundings. At least at Eton there was some freedom of movement, moving from one space to the next and venturing outside from time to time. It had never felt quite like this, as if he was trapped in the confines of his room, trapped by his own fragile body.

“Checkmate,” George said, and when Thomas groaned he began setting the chessboard up again. George was clearly humouring him, everybody knew how much he hated chess. Precision and logic were not his friend’s strong points which made his shocking defeat of Thomas all the more embarrassing.

"I'm so tired of being _anyone's_ invalid, I cannot even tell you. Mother and Mrs. Armstrong won't stop fussing like I'm made of glass and I just want it to end."

"And your father?"

Thomas laughed. A hollow laugh, humourless and bitter. "He barely ever visits. He came once when they were bleeding me and decreed that 'it is in pain, my son, that we are closest to God'. And then he scolded me for babbling. I dare anyone not to babble when their blood is being drained. It has a tendency to hurt."

"Well, you are a babbler, but that's beside the point." George grinned. "The point being: far be it from Lord Alfred Hamilton not to take the opportunity to be a sanctimonious twat."

Thomas laughed and shook his head. "I dare you to say that to his face."

Sometimes, when George insulted his father so boldly, Thomas thought that as much as he despised him, he should probably defend him. But he never did. He wondered if that made him a terrible son.

"If by some miracle God does in fact exist, I doubt that he'd really expect people to suffer in order to be close to him, don't you think?"

George was always saying blasphemous things like that, questioning the existence of the Heavenly Father. Thomas wanted to scold him for his lack of faith, but, if he was being honest, he did wonder sometimes if religion was an excuse for behaviour that could not have been further from how he himself perceived God.

Thomas looked down at the chessboard and yawned, his limbs growing heavy. He didn't want to doze off, he had had more than enough of sleeping but he found that his body had other ideas. "Will you stay?" he asked, his eyes beginning to close.

George stood up and moved a little closer, kneeling next to him, and said softly, "Of course I will. As long as you like."

"We can play when I wake though," Thomas said, yawning again. "I don't trust you not to cheat and tell everybody you beat me twice in a row."

"That sounds fair to me," George said, and put his hand on Thomas, just above the knee. It felt warm through his breeches, as if Thomas had been sitting in front of the fire for too long: warm and comforting. He closed his eyes and drifted off with George's hand still resting on his thigh, and his skin tingling pleasantly.

***

Thomas was nineteen, coming into his first year at King's College, when he returned to High Wycombe for the summer.

It was strange being back there, given the events of the previous year. He had, of course, returned to the estate for Christmas, but nothing looked or felt the same in the winter. Being back in the summer with the lakes no longer frozen, and surrounded by green, He couldn't help but reflect on the disastrous goings-on of the summer before. He had not been on Leontes since the fall, partially for fear, but mostly because the mere hint of it was enough to drive his mother insane even a year later. It almost didn't seem real to him now, the trauma of the fall and the months of recuperation afterward, like a strange dream that had no basis in reality. It was an experience he did not wish to repeat, but he didn't know what was worse: confinement or the fear of falling again.

He missed it desperately though, riding. Missed the sun hitting his face, and the freedom of being able to go wherever he wanted. Too much time cooped up in the house and its grounds made him restless, as if his skin was too tight to contain him. Thomas had absolutely had his fill of confinement and the ways that it weighed on him, the boredom and the emptiness. If he could not go riding, it would be almost as if he had lost the battle against his own fear. He spent every day in the stables, grooming Leontes, wondering how on earth he could convince his mother that he couldn't be afraid of being on a horse for the rest of his life.

After he'd been there a week, George returned from university in Ireland. He'd grown so handsome in the last year, his face leaner than it had been before, his jawline and cheekbones sharp. Thomas wondered whether he too looked different. Whenever he looked at himself he couldn't really see much of a difference, but his friends all told him he was far too thin now and needed to eat more. Ridiculous really, given how much he ate in a day. Nonetheless, they teased him for having gangly limbs and not enough muscle. Thomas wondered what he must look like to George, whether George thought he looked like his legs were too long for his body like Christopher Marsh had said, or that his waist looked like a girl's like Harry Peterson had said, grabbing him from behind and telling him he'd look good in a corset while all the boys in the common room laughed. 

George held on tightly to him as they embraced, his face pressed into Thomas’ neck. He stayed there for longer than usual and Thomas tried not to think about the way his skin was prickling at George's warm breath on him and his hands so firm on Thomas’ back.

"I think," George said, over a cup of tea the next day, "that we should go for a ride."

Thomas felt as if he might cry, not sure if it was from fear or relief or happiness. Or all three. "Good luck convincing Mother of that," he said, sipping his tea. "She's convinced that I'll die if I get on Leontes again."

"Leave her to me," George said. "Sometimes I think she loves me even more than she loves you."

"Sometimes I think you put Narcissus to shame, you dreadful boy."

"Oh, come now, Thomas," he said, grinning, "you know I'm completely loveable."

He laughed, but his chest ached, an ache that was down low and deep and seemed to twinge whenever George looked at him like that: his eyes sparkling with something that Thomas could not quite fathom.

His mother, as Thomas had assumed she would, guessed their game immediately. It was not the first time that the two boys had approached her in order to soften her up, all smiles and furtive glances. Usually when something very expensive had been broken, or one of them had trampled on the roses they would do it, George always going first because he thought he was the more charming of the two of them.

"Well?" She barely glanced up from her needlework, long enough to look them both squarely in the eye. "What have you two done now?"

"Nothing," Thomas replied. "Well, not yet."

She placed her needlework down on the table and looked up at him, her expression cloudy.

"You see, Lady Hamilton," George said, and dropped down to his knees, his most charming smile plastered on, "I was hoping to take Thomas riding for the afternoon. But he mentioned—"

"I just don't think it is wise." 

"Mother," Thomas said, softly, controlling his breath so as to sound as even, as polite as possible, "I will honestly be all right. Everyone comes off their horse at least once, don't they George?"

"Yes," his mother replied, "but they don't all break bones."

Thomas wanted to scream at her that he wasn't a child and didn't need her approval, but sometimes, when she was intent on something, she could be just as stubborn, just as immovable, as his father. 

"I cannot go through life worried about being broken," Thomas said, biting the inside of his cheek. He knew more than anything that losing his temper from frustration would absolutely ensure the subject was never broached again.

"I'll take good care of him, my Lady." George stood again, and put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder, squeezing it tight. "He is in excellent hands." It was all Thomas could do not to blush.

His mother rose from her chair, her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. Thomas had seen that look more than enough times to know that she was seriously weighing up both sides of the argument before she made a decision. She was never impulsive, and while it often made him grind his teeth with frustration, Thomas wished he could be more like her: measured and careful.

"All right," she said, reluctantly, kissing Thomas on the forehead. "Please do be careful though, my darling. There is only one of you, and you are far too precious to me to get yourself hurt again."

Thomas looked at George, took in his upturned mouth, his wide, intense stare. He wondered what his mother saw in the way George looked at him, or the way that he looked at George. Perhaps it was as much of a mystery to her as it was to Thomas, though without the thread of hope that threatened to unravel, bone-deep and frightening.

"What about me?" George asked, pretending to sulk. "Am I not also precious?"

His mother laughed. "You are indeed precious, dear boy, to your mother and to me. I would hate for anything to happen to either of you."

George kissed her on the cheek, and Thomas marvelled that he was really the only person that could do something so improper and get away with it. But again, George was an exception to almost every rule.

"I'll go home and change," George said, “and meet you down by the path."

Thomas nodded and waited for George to leave before kissing his mother on the forehead and excusing himself to his room to change into his own riding gear. His hands shook as he removed his shoes and swapped his cream breeches for brown. He sat on the bed to pull on his boots, which were tight and difficult to pull up over his calves. It had been so long since he'd worn them that they no longer recognised the familiar curves and contours of his limbs, they would have to be broken in all over again. Forcing a thing to orient itself to an ideal that was all wrong for it was always a difficult, and often impossible, process. 

When Thomas had completely changed, his blue waistcoat buttoned and his brown coat open and swishing against his legs as he walked, he took his bag down to the kitchen. He shoved some apples, a few carrots for Leontes and a couple of bottles of beer in the bag and walked outside. George was waiting for him at the beginning of the path that wound down to the stables, walking his brown stallion, Hector.

Thomas was silent on the walk to the stables. He wanted this, he definitely wanted this, but his legs still shook and there was a slightly bitter taste in the back of his throat. George kept trying to engage him in conversation, but Thomas was unable to do much more than smile and nod, the reality of what he was about to do sitting in his belly, heavy and immovable, like a lump of lead. 

"You don't have to do this," George said, as they neared the open door to the stables. Just say the word and we can walk to the river instead."

He smiled. "It's fine. I'm just a little—it's a lot to deal with, that’s all."

He gestured for Molesworthy to bring Leontes out. Hector and Leontes had spent plenty of time together over the past few years and while Hector was slightly older, the two horses seemed to enjoy each other’s company whenever George brought Hector around to the estate. The two horses neighed when they saw each other, and, as usual, it was a deafening conversation. Thomas clapped his hands over his ears and looked over at George who was wincing at the cacophony. He couldn't help but laugh at George's pained expression and the ridiculousness of the situation. He laughed far too hard and far too long, but it felt good, the first time he'd properly laughed in ages. Once Leontes and Hector had finally calmed down, Thomas let Leontes eat one of the carrots he'd been carrying from the palm of his hand and stroked his crest.

"He's ready, I think," Thomas said, and looked to Molesworthy for his approval. He nodded and Thomas led Leontes out the back, George following with Hector. 

They led the horses to the grass outside the stables, near the old tree stump used as a mounting aid. Thomas had taken Leontes for walks several times since the accident, and yet this was, they both knew, different. His hands began to shake, his chest tightening and his brow becoming wet with perspiration. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying not to focus on the memory of his arm cracking under him, the pain, and the laudanum haze. 

"Thomas," George said, softly.

He opened his eyes to see George staring at him, his face calm and his eyes fixed on Thomas’. He remembered then what George had told his mother and how it had felt to have George's hand on him: protective and grounding. He took a deep breath, heart pounding in his chest, and mounted Leontes. He did it as smoothly as possible, giving the horse time to react before he coaxed him forward a few steps, talking to him and gently stroking his coat.

They rode down to the River Wye, taking a slow canter until Thomas felt confident enough to pat Leontes on the shoulder, encouraging him to gallop. It was a perfect day: not too hot but just warm enough to enjoy the breeze in his hair and on his skin. When they finally reached the river he patted Leontes gently on his other shoulder, and the horse slowed to a canter, then to a walk, then stopped still. Thomas couldn't help but let out a huge breath as he dismounted using one of the old boulders by the copse of ash trees, his legs shaking as he reached the ground.

"You've been such a good boy," he said, and fed Leontes another carrot from his bag as he scratched the latch of his horse's throat. He felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from him, one that he'd been carrying for months. 

They let the two horses graze by the copse and he and George set themselves up in the grass facing the river. Thomas picked a buttercup, rolling it between his fingers, staining them slightly yellow before he dropped it in the patch of grass he'd found it.

"I'll take some of that beer now if you don't mind?" George asked. "My throat's parched."

"It's in the bag," Thomas said, "help yourself."

"I've missed this," George said, and opened one of the bottles. He took a large swig, passing it to Thomas, who had not realised until he took a sip just how thirsty he was. He drank again, deep this time, enjoying the cool wetness of it on his dry, irritated throat.

"I have too." He passed the bottle back to George and leaned back on his arms, staring up at the sky. "Did I tell you what Father said to me after the accident? I don't think I did."

"I can only imagine," George said.

He lay down in the grass next to Thomas, not too close but close enough that if Thomas had reached for him, they would be able to touch. He lay back and spread the fingers of his left hand out, letting the blades of grass tickle his skin, stopping short of reaching for George's hand.

"Go on then," George said, his voice low and almost hoarse. 

Thomas was unsure for a moment what George meant. Whether he wanted Thomas to continue his story or to reach out and touch him. 

"What did he say?" George asked. 

Thomas let out an audible breath and turned onto his side, to face George. "Well, firstly, he suggested that perhaps it was my clumsiness that had caused the accident in the first place—" 

"You are not at all clumsy," George said. "Well, aside from all the times you were of course. But that certainly was not one of those times." 

"Thank you for such a resounding vote of confidence," Thomas said, rolling his eyes, "what would I do without you?"

"Die of boredom most likely."

"That is undoubtedly true." 

George propped himself up on one elbow and grinned wide. He looked so handsome in that moment, his cropped natural hair glinting in the sunlight. He had worn his emerald green greatcoat, and the gold buttons offset the blue of his eyes so that they looked brighter, sharper somehow. They were intently focused on him, George's eyes, and Thomas felt exposed. He found he both wanted to stare back but also to look away. The heat rose in his cheeks and it took all the wherewithal he had to force himself to look away, down to the ground, and away from George's gaze.

"Anyway," Thomas said, his throat dry and catching on each word, "he told me if it wasn't my dreadful clumsiness that perhaps 'that damn horse' should be sent away, and—" his throat closed up, unable to finish. "I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

"Your father," George said, "is an absolute arse. It's a marvel you turned out to be anything other than a complete and utter prick, all things considered."

"I hate him."

"I know you do." George moved in closer, and touched Thomas’ arm, his fingers just resting at the small patch of skin where his shirtsleeve stopped. There was now not so much as a hair's breadth between them and Thomas could not suppress the shiver that the touch engendered in him. He could feel George's warm breath on his cheek and it made the hair on his neck and arms prickle. George's eyes were fixed on his, and the intensity of his stare made Thomas’ belly roll over with something that felt sharp and dangerous. They were silent, their breath the only sound aside from birdsong and the sound of the water as it trickled and splashed. 

The silence was heavy and cloying until Thomas finally spoke, his tongue thick in his mouth and his chest growing tight.

"George— am I imagining—"

"No. You are certainly not," he whispered. He looked at Thomas with such resolve, such determination that it made Thomas sigh.

May I?" George asked, reaching out tentatively to touch Thomas’ face. 

Thomas nodded and leaned into the touch as George brushed along the curve of Thomas’ cheekbone with his fingertips, traced the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw.

Thomas could hear his father's voice in in his head, commenting on the men that had been pilloried in London for buggery. He had called them filthy, ungodly reprobates. Was that what Thomas was? A sinner? An ungodly reprobate?

"Thomas?" George repeated, and perhaps he was one, perhaps he wasn't, there was no surety either way.

He reached forward, his hand on the back of George's neck, and pulled him closer. "Yes," he said. "Yes, you may."

George's lips were warm as they pressed against his, and Thomas couldn't help but sigh his approval, sliding his hands now into George's hair. It was not as if he had never been kissed before, there had been parties at Cambridge where girls had been invited: the sorts of girls that one would never marry, who would sit on a man's lap and kiss him quite comfortably in front of everyone. But this was different than the kisses he'd shared with those pretty, thin girls with soft lips because he felt like he should. George's mouth was soft, but it was also purposeful, and every time he kissed Thomas there was a hint of roughness, his whiskers rubbing against Thomas’ skin.

Thomas found himself pushed back onto the grass, George's hand on his shoulder. He must have looked a sight if the way George looked was any indication: hair at all angles, cheeks flushed, his mouth slightly red and open, panting. 

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," George said, his breathing uneven. He sounded so thoroughly affected that it made Thomas’ hands shake when he reached for George, pulling him down to lie between his splayed thighs.

"Wait," he said, and pressed Thomas back gently, a hand on his chest. George removed his coat and threw it on the ground next to them. He lowered himself down, and Thomas could feel George's erection, hard against his hip. It made him inhale sharply. 

Next to George, Thomas was useless and inexperienced. It was obvious that George had done this before, probably many times. He knew where to put his hands, and when to coax Thomas’ mouth open with his tongue. Thomas felt hopelessly inadequate and he turned his head away, embarrassed at his awkwardness. 

George coaxed him back, a hand gentle on his jaw. "God, you're so lovely. How do you not know how lovely you are?" he asked, and kissed Thomas again.

This time, Thomas kissed back, ardently. This wasn't some stranger for him to feel threatened by, this was George who he had known forever, George who had sat with him when he was ill, George who had told him he was lovely. He cradled George's head in his hands and met his tongue with his own. The kisses felt different now. They were more illicit somehow, like unbridled need that connected directly to Thomas’ cock, aching in the confines of his breeches. Thomas found himself getting more and more affected by it and lost himself in the wet heat of George's mouth and his hands on Thomas’ skin, the ache of pleasure deep down in his bones. He canted his hips up, meeting George's crotch and it made the other boy hiss. Every time George's tongue stroked over his, and their hips rubbed against each other, Thomas became more and more convinced that he had always wanted this and that he would never want anything else ever again.

In the distance, Thomas heard the sound of hooves, clip-clopping and the occasional whinny. George must have heard the same and he pulled back instantly. He left Thomas lying there on his back and quickly got to his feet, smoothing his clothes and pulling his coat back on, hiding the evidence of his own arousal. 

By the time the party rode through both boys were up, their clothing fixed and, Thomas hoped, looking not as if they had not been rolling around in the grass together but rather two friends who had been wasting an afternoon, sitting by the river with their horses.

They rode back to the estate soon after in silence. It wasn't an altogether comfortable ride, what had happened that afternoon sat heavy and awkward in the air between them, and Thomas couldn't help but clear his throat every few minutes, desperate to fill the silence with something. In his periphery, though, Thomas could see the way George was looking at him. It was exhilarating, the idea that he could make someone look at him that way, that he could make someone want him like that. Let alone the fact that the "someone" was George. 

Thomas wondered if he was, indeed, going to hell for this. Perhaps the most worrying thing about it was that it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.

***

When Thomas returned to Cambridge, it appeared as if nothing had changed. His friends were exactly the same down to the pranks they pulled on the first-year students and the parties that they held in the dorm rooms during term. The university had not changed: Mr Grahame was still an absolute tyrant who became livid when Thomas continually questioned him on the nature of morality, and the physical environment was entirely the same as it had been for the past two years.

The only thing that had changed, apparently, was him. 

_Summer seems so very far away_ , he wrote to George, _I almost feel as if we will have each forgotten what the other looks like when we meet again_.

_That would be an impossibility, my dear friend,_ George wrote, _and I look forward to seeing you again very soon. We can venture down to the river again and spend the afternoon, enjoying ourselves, your face the picture of contentment as you laze about in the grass_. 

They had always written to each other during the school year, but Thomas did wonder if anyone were to read the letters they sent now, whether they would notice the marked difference in their tone. There was nothing obviously untoward, nothing that could be construed as anything other than two friends writing to each other about summer and rivers and grass. But the words made Thomas’ belly flood with heat and his cheeks turn blood-red, nonetheless. He knew what George really meant even if nobody else did. George wanted to lie with Thomas again, to press him back into the grass and kiss him until he sighed, to shove his hand inside Thomas’ breeches and bring him to completion as he had done many times that summer just passed.

_I very much look forward to that too_ , Thomas wrote back. _Perhaps there will be ample opportunity for us both to be contented, to take turns lazing about, as you call it._

The last letter he received from George, a month or so before he was due to return to High Wycombe, simply said:

_Thomas,_

_You are shamelessly bold and I shall hold you to that._

_G.F._

It felt like a great risk, committing those words to paper, permanent and traceable, and there was something immensely thrilling about it. It made Thomas’ pulse race a little faster to think about the two of them flagrantly flaunting their attraction. It was intoxicating, the secrecy of their relationship and the threat of discovery and it made their flirtations all the more addictive, decadent somehow. Anybody could read the letters he and George sent each other and still have no inkling of who the real Thomas Hamilton was or what he was doing right under their noses.

He committed George's letter to memory, repeating his words over and over in his head. He could not help the thrill that sparked deep-down in his groin at them, at the idea that George might be similarly affected by the letters he had received from Thomas and the memories of their summer dalliances. Some nights, Thomas would lie in his bed and stroke himself, one hand over his mouth so as not to make noise, George's words a silent refrain urging him to completion.

For all of Thomas’ complaints, the term flew by and it was a warm weekend in June when he returned to the estate. He had turned twenty the week before, and his mother had asked the cook to prepare a lavish meal in order to celebrate his birthday and homecoming. They had dined on roast beef and pigeon with root vegetables, blancmange for pudding, and far too much madeira wine. By the time he fell onto his bed, though it had been a delicious meal, his gut ached, and the room was spinning. 

He was still full and his head fuzzy the next day when he met George for a picnic by the lake near the Farnsworth estate. The oak trees were full of green leaves and it was hard to believe that in just a few months they would start to change, green becoming orange, and shedding onto the ground. The trees would be bare then, leaving a blanket of dead brown leaves that crunched when they were walked on. Seasons in High Wycombe always changed far too fast, a constant reminder that time could never be slowed down.

He watched as George tucked into cheese, bread, eggs and fruit and his stomach clenched up at the thought. "No, thank you," he said, as George offered him a plate. After George had eaten and washed his food down with a mouthful or two of wine, Thomas leaned in and kissed him. He held George's face in his hands so he could lick every inch of his mouth, his tongue sliding in sure and insistent. George tasted like the wine he'd been drinking, sharp and musky, and when he took control of the kiss, pushing Thomas back into the grass, Thomas let him.

They lay there in the grass for what seemed like hours, kissing soft and slow, Thomas’ thighs spread so that George could fit between them, his hips pressing Thomas into the ground. George's fingers fumbled as he untied Thomas’ cravat and Thomas couldn't help but giggle. Finally, he pulled the cravat off and pushed down Thomas’ shirt collar, exposing his neck. George rocked his hips forward and rubbed their cocks together, a slow teasing slide that made Thomas arch up, trying to gain more friction. George pressed kisses into his throat, his whiskers abrading Thomas’ neck as they rocked against each other, more and more frantic as they drove their hips together towards completion.

Afterwards, when George had cleaned them both up with his handkerchief, Thomas lay with his head on George's chest, staring up at the sky.

"Do you think," he said, his breathing still rough and uneven, "that there will ever be a day when two men can love without fear of reprisal?"

"Bit deep for a post-coital conversation, don't you think? Wouldn't you rather bask in the afterglow?"

Thomas laughed. "When have you known me to ever put off till later what I could talk about immediately?"

George leaned down and brushed his thumb over Thomas’ cheek, and traced the outside of his lips. “The truth of it is I honestly don't know," he said, much more serious than he had been. "Maybe someday, but not soon, I think." He smiled, but only a half-smile, and it made Thomas ache.

"Perhaps when I'm in parliament—"

George laughed. It sounded humourless and hollow. "When you're in parliament, dear boy, you will be married to a very pretty wife, most likely with a couple of brats running around the house, and all of this," he waved his hand between them, "will be a fond but distant memory."

"Married," Thomas repeated, as if he needed to hear it out loud for it to make sense. He sat up and turned around to face George, his lips pressed into a thin line. "What happened to the boy who told me that I needn't ever listen to my father? Who told me to bugger tradition?"

"He grew up," George said, sitting up on his haunches, "and had to understand that we can't always have the things we want. No matter how much we want them." He grabbed Thomas by the waist and pulled him in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I see," Thomas said. "Duty. Propriety."

"Only your mouth," George said, one arm wrapped around Thomas’ waist as he leaned forward to kiss his neck, "could make those words sound like insults."

Thomas moved to sit astride George's hips. There was a burning sensation settled deep within his chest, ugly and sharp, but he wanted this, wanted George, his skin prickling with need and his cock stiffening in his breeches. 

"You used to be the one to wield words like insults," Thomas said, his hips grinding down and his head tilted back in invitation. "Perhaps I have grown up too."

"Oh yes," George said, "I believe you have." He kissed Thomas’ neck with fervour, teeth scraping over his jugular. 

"I—" he panted, "think you will make a very fine doctor. And a good husband. Will she be beautiful, do you think? Your wife? Will her hair be as bright as love's star when it riseth?"

George groaned and pulled away. "How long have you been waiting to quote Jonson at me, Thomas? All day? All week?"

"I believe it dawned on me as you were halfway through your boiled egg." He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You haven't answered my question, though. I asked if she will be beautiful, and, while I am impressed that you picked up on my clever literary retort, you have yet to answer to my satisfaction."

"I'll give you satisfaction," George said, his tone sharp. Moving whip-quick he grabbed Thomas’ arms and held them above his head, pushing him down into the ground. George sat astride him, his strong thighs bracketing Thomas’ slim hips and trapping him there. He leaned forward, his mouth rested on Thomas’ jaw and murmured, " _You_ are beautiful. And you talk too much. Can we just—not talk for once?"

"God. Yes." Thomas tried to move, as much as he could, but to no avail. George was much stronger than he was, his thighs keenly muscled from cricket and riding. Thomas, on the other hand, while an occasional sports player, had always been more interested in books and his riding had always been a leisurely pastime rather than a competitive one. It was not unpleasant, the idea that George could hold him down like this.

"There's something I'd like to try, if you are amenable?" George asked, in between frantic, open-mouthed kisses that belied the desperation that the air was thick with.

Thomas nodded. "Yes," he said, "please just touch me."

It was a dangerous proposal, out in the open like this, but from the look on George's face there was no chance of stopping it. He let go of Thomas’ wrists, and unfastened Thomas’ breeches and underthings and pulled them down to his thighs in one fast move. Thomas’ wrists ached, and he couldn't help but feel exposed, the sun warm on his bare skin and cock. The way George had undressed him, almost roughly, as if he couldn't wait, made his prick throb, the head wet with wanting. George placed Thomas’ hands in his hair, holding them there as he lowered his head and licked up the length of Thomas’ cock. It was graceless, messy, rough, and Thomas loved every single second of it, desire turning his bones to liquid as George's hot, wet mouth slid up and down the length of him. It was overwhelming: the heat of the sun on him, his fingers digging into the dirt and this constant wet heat on his cock. He began to moan, his belly flooding with pleasure and before he could yell out a warning, he was spending, his hips thrust forward.

After Thomas had brought George to completion with his hands, they lay in the grass, their foreheads pressed together, slick with sweat. 

"I don't want you to leave," Thomas said, his hair plastered to his brow. "Aren't you tired of the rain in Ireland? Father says that it rains constantly."

George ignored Thomas’ question and kissed him again, just a brief brush of lips.

The Hamiltons dined at the Farnsworth estate a few days before Thomas returned to college. After dinner, George's mother announced his engagement to Celia Ward, the youngest daughter of Sir Edward Ward, the Chief Baron of the Exchequer. Thomas swallowed down the bitterness at the back of his throat and shook George's hand but did not once meet his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

George wrote to him once after they had both returned to university. It was a rambling, superficial letter about the weather in Dublin and how difficult school was. Almost hidden halfway down the page was a string of sentences that had nothing to do with the rest of the letter: _It was already arranged. There was nothing I could do. I didn't know how to tell you. I'm sorry._

Thomas sat for weeks trying to formulate a reply. He wanted to hate George for it, for not telling him, but it felt so pointless. What could be gained by resentment?

He did write back eventually, saying, _I forgive you. I miss you. But I beg of you, George, please don't write to me again._

It made for an odd start to the Christmas break, arriving home in High Wycombe and having no word from George, no plans to visit. Everything in Thomas ached to talk to him, see him, touch him. The realisation that for all George's posturing he was really just like everyone else, completely swayed by what was expected of him, made him feel hollow. 

"I suppose it was rather inevitable," his mother had said when she'd asked why the two boys were not spending time together over the break, "you are both grown up now, after all. Sometimes friends just grow apart. Perhaps he'll be spending more time in London now that he's engaged."

"Perhaps," Thomas said, curtly, and tried to ignore the way his stomach roiled at the memory of the engagement announcement. It had been ironic really, George's mother proudly announcing her son's engagement while under his breeches Thomas was hiding the bruises that George had sucked and bitten into his inner thigh that afternoon. 

He mumbled an apology to his mother and walked down to the stables to see Leontes. Being cooped up with his parents for two weeks without an escape was not something Thomas was looking forward to. If George and he had been speaking they would have been walking to the stables together. Thomas wondered, and not for the first time, whether he had overreacted, whether the hurt from George’s subterfuge outweighed the loss of what they had. George's absence was like an ache that was always there, unable to be soothed.

Thomas turned the corner to approach the stable entrance, with the sound of hammer and iron reverberating through the air. But as he approached he saw that instead of Mr. Molesworthy, there was a young man, most likely in his early 20s. He was slightly shorter and a great deal broader than Thomas, bearded, with dark curly hair that reached the nape of his neck. His smock was unlaced and sweat had caused it to cling to his chest. Beads of perspiration pooled in the base of his throat and had trickled further down, and Thomas could see the muscles flexing in his arms with every strike of the hammer. Thomas swallowed against the dryness in his throat. The young man had not noticed him approaching and while it was, he had to admit, a pleasant sight, it didn't feel quite right to Thomas to stand there ogling a servant so shamelessly and without his knowledge. He coughed, sharply. The hammering stopped, and the young man looked up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Oh hello, I didn't see you there. Sorry." He was Irish, his voice pleasantly lyrical and almost incongruous to the surroundings they were both in. If he was startled by Thomas’ presence it didn't show on his face. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Who are you?" Thomas asked. "Where is Molesworthy?"

"He had an accident, sir. Fell down a bank and hurt his ankle a few weeks ago. He'll be fine, just needed to spend some time recuperating." He ran his hand through a wild mass of curls. "I'm McCormack."

"Good to meet you McCormack. I'm Thomas Hamilton."

"The Earl's son?" he asked, and Thomas nodded. McCormack started picking up the horseshoes that he'd been hammering with a pair of tongs. He walked into the stable, through the front entrance, and Thomas followed him.

"Then you're _Lord_ Thomas Hamilton, ain't you?" he asked, placing the horseshoes on the long work table and turning to face him, arms crossed.

"I generally prefer just Thomas."

McCormack leaned on the table. "And I generally prefer keeping my job, m'lord."

When McCormack smiled, his eyes became even brighter, and it made Thomas stare like an imbecile. He was, quite frankly, one of the most attractive men that Thomas had ever seen. McCormack was nothing like George in any way. Dark where George had been blond, deep brown eyes where George's had been blue. His smile hinted at something wicked, almost dangerous, and Thomas could not fathom why McCormack was looking at him the way he was.

"Was there something you wanted? My lord?"

Thomas was well aware he was still staring, cataloguing this man in front of him, but for some reason he seemed unable to look away. "I—" he said, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. "Uh— I was hoping to see my horse, Leontes."

"Of course," McCormack said, "He's lovely. You're very lucky. I was actually about to feed him if you'd like to join me."

Thomas nodded, and McCormack walked over to fetch a bale of hay from the pile in the corner. He gestured to Thomas to follow him with a shake of his head and Thomas walked behind him, his eyes fixed on the way McCormack's breeches were moulded to the curve of his arse. If George had been there he would have teased him for being so shameless as to ogle a servant's behind in broad daylight. Thomas wondered if there would ever be a time that his first thought in any given situation was not about George.

Leontes was as beautiful as ever, his brown coat sleek. He neighed enthusiastically when he saw Thomas and Thomas’ heart clenched at the sight of him, but it hurt too. When he thought about the last time he had taken Leontes for a ride, it was impossible not to think of George and just how different everything had been then. When Thomas swallowed he could taste that familiar bitter tang at the back of his throat. He tried to concentrate on what was in front of him instead. Leontes always liked it when Thomas stroked his muzzle and scratched behind his ears so that was what he did, lavished his attention on the one friend he could actually depend on.

"You don't care about duty, do you, boy?" he asked, softly. 

"Haven't seen him that happy in months," McCormack said, throwing handfuls of hay into the feeder. "I don't suppose you'd want to—?"

"Of course," Thomas said, and took the hay bale from McCormack. He pulled a handful of straw from the bale and held it out for Leontes to nibble on. It tickled his hand a little when the horse gobbled the hay down, the strands of hay brushing against the sensitive skin of Thomas’ palm.

The only sound in the stables was the occasional neigh or whinny from the other horses and Leontes’ hay-munching. Thomas didn't enjoy silence at the best of times, and this was worse somehow, like the air was thick and oppressive with the lack of noise and he had to do something to counteract it. 

"How long have you been in England?" Thomas asked.

"Not long. A year or so. My uncle's a farrier and he knows Mr. Molesworthy. That's how I found out about the job."

"It sounds as if it worked out for the best, then." Thomas whipped his head around to face McCormack, "I didn't mean that Molesworthy had an accident. I mean— sorry, my father always says I should think before I speak. Apparently, it hasn't quite sunk in."

McCormack laughed. "I knew what you meant." He paused. "It's strange, though."

"What is?"

"That you should actually care what servants think. I mean, I'm not complaining but—"

"A friend once told me," Thomas started, swallowing against the lump in his throat, "that accidents of birth are nothing to feel superior about." He turned back to Leontes and pulled another handful of hay from the bale, holding his hand out.

"Sounds like someone with a good head on his shoulders."

"He liked to think so," Thomas said, biting his lip. "And, well, he did. About some things. He was always saying things that most people would see as radical. He just—couldn't seem to follow through when it counted."

Thomas inhaled sharply and turned back to McCormack, who was gazing at him, thoughtfully. They stared at each other for what felt like long, long minutes. The weight of McCormack's stare was palpable, and Thomas shifted back and forth on his feet, his fingers flexed at his sides, but he did not look away. There was something in that stare that he both wanted to avoid and wanted to invite more of. It was not altogether unpleasant, being at the centre of McCormack's intense scrutiny. It had been some time since he'd felt the intensity of another man's stare like that. He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly very dry. 

"I think," McCormack said, “that your horse has probably had enough hay now, don't you? Can't have him eating too much straw or it'll ruin his actual meal." He held out his hand and Thomas handed back what was left of the bale. 

The close proximity and the intensity of McCormack's attention was starting to make Thomas feel as if he couldn't quite breathe normally. "I think perhaps I'd better get back," he said, leaning against the corner of the stall to recentre himself. "Perhaps I can come back another time."

"Of course," McCormack said. "They are your stables after all. I'd imagine you can come back anytime you like." He smiled again, wide, cheeky, and Thomas’ belly flipped.

Thomas thought about that smile all the way back to the house. He resisted the urge to call on Leontes again later that day, choosing to take a walk down to the river instead and nap in the sun. He wondered exactly what had been going on in McCormack's head, and whether he'd been reading too much into the staring. He had, of course, looked his fill too, and why the hell shouldn't he? It wasn't as if George had been the only man Thomas had ever found pleasant to look at. There had been others at Eton and Cambridge, though, until now, never any servants. Most of the Hamiltons' servants had been in the family for decades. Finding one who was attractive in any capacity was a new thing indeed. There were always young women of course. They never stayed very long though. He tried not to think too much about that.

He didn't visit the stables for a couple of days, mostly due to the weather and the large amount of reading Thomas had planned to do over the break. It wasn't as if he was making excuses, it was bitterly cold in the snow and the library had a warm fire and all the space he needed to read. His father had been unimpressed at his choice of reading material, but Thomas found Descartes' _Discourse on the Method_ to be powerfully persuasive.

"I would have thought," his father said, warming his hands by the fire, "that you would know better than to bring Catholic propaganda into my house."

"If it were, as you call it, Catholic propaganda," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair, "then why did the Catholic church ban his books and call him an atheist?"

"I fail to see why that is a justification for reading him."

Thomas stood his ground. "I will not spend my life worried about what people think of my allegiances, nor will I let it stop me expanding my capacity to reason."

"That, my son, sounds very close to blasphemy." 

He turned to walk away but Thomas did not miss a beat. "Some might say that the real blasphemy is using God's name to impede progress." He stood up and crossed the room to stand opposite his father, arms folded across his chest, and the corner of his mouth upturned.

His father glared. His face was scarlet, and his hands clenched at his sides. He always looked like this when Thomas had managed to get under his skin. It was exhilarating.

"Sometimes, Thomas, I believe you argue for the sheer enjoyment of it."

"Qualities that will make him a fine politician," his mother said, her voice even, almost placatory, as she entered the room. She kissed Thomas on the cheek.

"Perhaps," his father said, his mouth a hard line, "if his idealism does not get in the way."

Thomas inhaled sharply through his nose and opened his mouth to speak. His mother put her hand on his arm and whispered, "Don't start. Please."

Thomas nodded and forced himself to smile. It felt uncomfortable, like a cravat that had been tied too tight. "I will endeavour to keep my idealism in check, Father. Now, if you'll excuse me?"

"Very well."

"He doesn't mean it, you know," his mother said softly as she walked with Thomas to his bedroom. "He just—"

"I have no idea why you persist in defending him," Thomas said, through gritted teeth, "he has never deserved it."

She sighed. "One day you might understand, my dear, that keeping the peace is a necessary compromise."

"I have heard that a lot lately. And it never fails to sound like an excuse." 

"Thomas." She was angry now, her arms crossed and her nostrils flaring. "You forget your place."

"I'm sorry, Mother. That was rude. It is not you that I'm angry with." He kissed her on the cheek. "Clearly I need some rest and perhaps a walk, freezing or not."

"Of course," she said, but her face was clouded over. "Is there anything I need to know, Thomas?"

"Absolutely not." He smiled, a wry half smile that didn't meet his eyes.

She turned to leave and stopped in her tracks. "Oh, I almost forgot. We will be having the Reverend and friends over this evening for dinner. I trust you will be well rested by then?"

"Of course," he said, and opened his bedroom door, "I'll even try my utmost to be charming." He slid his boots off and collapsed face-down on the bed. 

He slept most of the afternoon, waking up around four o'clock. His mother was busy instructing the housemaids on Christmas decorations for the dining room, and Thomas took the opportunity to slip out and down to the stables wearing as many layers as he could to try and keep the cold out as much as possible. 

"I hope you're not intending on traipsing around the stables wearing that," McCormack said, grinning. "You'll dirty those clothes sooner than it takes to blink."

Thomas removed his gloves and left them on the table. His fingers were cramped and he blew into his hands to try and warm them. "I'm always happy to get my hands dirty."

McCormack raised an eyebrow. "Are you now, m'lord?" He asked, his voice a half-whisper, as rough as the hay that Leontes was greedily munching out of Thomas’ open hand. "What would a nice boy like yourself know about that?"

Thomas’ cheeks flushed. "I'm twenty years old, you know. I'm a man, not a boy. And if you think I'm some pampered aristocrat, then you clearly haven't been paying attention to anything I've said." 

McCormack didn't seem to care about Thomas’ outburst, or the hard line of his mouth. He just stood there, that upturned smirk present, looking at Thomas intently. "I didn't say you were pampered, m'lord," McCormack said, stretching his arms above his head. The action made his shirt ride up a little, exposing a strip of olive skin. "I just wondered what you knew about really getting your hands dirty?"

McCormack's voice was low, rough, and full of innuendo that Thomas was sure he couldn't possibly have imagined. The air between them felt thick as Thomas slowly wiped his hands on the rag. The hair on his arms stood on end and he suppressed a shiver, unable to tear his eyes away from the bare skin of McCormack's torso that he seemed so averse to covering. When he finally forced himself to look up at McCormack's face, Thomas could see the invitation in his eyes. How could he have known about Thomas’ interest in men? Had Thomas been that obvious in the way he had looked at him? Thomas suddenly felt as exposed and displayed as that patch of skin he had been fixated on.

"I need to get back," he said, leaning against the corner of the stall. "Mother's invited some friends around for dinner and I need to—."

"Clean up?"

"Yes," Thomas said, nibbling his bottom lip.

McCormack walked over to where Thomas was leaning, his hips slightly swaying in a manner that was entirely salacious and unfair. He placed his hand on the top of the stall next to Thomas’ head. "If that's what you want."

The proximity was far too close to be anything other than an invitation. Thomas’ throat was parched, and his breeches were suddenly far too tight, but he nodded, and managed to croak out, "Yes. That's exactly what I want."

McCormack narrowed his eyes as if he didn't believe him, but he stepped back, giving him space. Thomas felt as if perhaps he had been bolted to the ground because he didn't move, just stared for a moment, taking in the twist of McCormack's mouth, before he managed to gather the momentum to move, and walk from the stables.

***

Thomas took his time washing up for dinner. His hands were grimy from the stables, but so was the back of his neck, dust and dirt sticking to his skin. He wiped himself down with the wet cloth and splashed water on his face. His thoughts drifted to McCormack, and he felt a little dizzy. It hadn't been like this with George, this completely physical reaction, his nerve endings on fire as if he couldn't think about anything else. It wasn't affection or friendship, just base desire. Thomas had heard some of the boys at school talk about girls they'd fucked just because they could: he had never been able to relate to them before. George had been all he had ever thought about, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and he still occupied Thomas’ thoughts to an irritating degree. But what McCormack offered, if Thomas had been reading him correctly, was something different altogether.

He should not, he supposed, have been at all surprised when he came down for dinner, that the man he had been trying so hard not to think about for months was sitting there along with Thomas’ father, both of their mothers, Reverend Williams, and the Ratcliffes. Thomas’ entire body tensed, and his ears started ringing. Being ambushed was never fun and he struggled to keep his face neutral and think of anything to say that was fit for the ears of the room.

"Look who's here, Thomas," his mother called out to him. "I wasn't even sure if he'd be in London or not, but here we all are."

"Yes," Thomas said, trying desperately for an even tone of voice while his throat threatened to close up completely, "here we all are." He shook hands with the Reverend, Christopher Ratcliffe, and George, looking at him for the briefest moment before kissing Mary Farnsworth and Georgiana Ratcliffe on the hand and sitting down to dinner.

The whole evening was excruciating. Thomas did his best to be polite and present all through the four course meal, but he spent large portions of time staring at his plate and trying to resist the compulsion to drink far too much wine. Every time he looked at George he had to dig his fingernails into his palms and the wine was the only thing, aside from that hint of pain, that seemed to help. Whenever George spoke, Thomas could feel heat rising in his face, his jaw clenched tight. It was as if Thomas had been trapped and put on display, forced to school himself into calm and neutral while remembering how George's mouth tasted, how his hands felt on Thomas’ skin, and how wounded Thomas had been just a few months ago, when he sat in George's house and forced out words of congratulations that he had wanted to choke on.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to be rude," Thomas said, as they were finishing pudding, "but I have an absolutely dreadful headache and I feel as if I had better retire to bed." 

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that," Reverend Williams said, "I thought that you were unusually quiet this evening. Very strange to last an evening without Thomas Hamilton challenging my interpretations of the holy book."

Thomas laughed and wiped his mouth on his napkin. He dared then, to look at George. His face was slightly ashen and his mouth downturned. He shifted in his seat under Thomas’ gaze and for once, Thomas did not look away. He couldn't help but feel a slight thrill in the pit of his stomach at having made George feel uncomfortable for once.

"It was wonderful to see you again," the Reverend said. "Perhaps we shall see you at midnight service?"

"Undoubtedly," Thomas said, and shook his hand as he stood up. He nodded. "Goodnight, gentlemen. Ladies."

His mother looked at him, her face awash with concern. His father didn't seem to care, so focused was he on Mrs Ratcliffe and her ample bosom. It was times like this when Thomas wondered exactly why his mother put up with him: it was a revolting display and one that was obvious to everyone sitting in that room. But of course, no-one would dare question Lord Alfred Hamilton, regardless of how vile his actions. Thomas pushed his chair out, his heart pounding, and walked over to his mother's seat. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "I'm fine, mother. Honestly. I'm just a bit exhausted and the wine has gone to my head." 

"Very well, darling. Please feel better," she whispered. 

He kissed her on the cheek and walked briskly to his room. Thomas’ head was throbbing, that had not been a lie. He took off his wig and shoes and untied his cravat. He lay down on his bed, massaging his temples. It took a moment for him to realise he had forgotten to close his bedroom door and Thomas was unsurprised when he looked up to find the cause of his headache standing in the doorway.

"Well, come in then," he said, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. He heard the snick of the door closing and George's breathing, hitched and audible, breaking the silence of the room. His eyes were closed but he felt the bed move and opened them to see George, sitting on the side of the bed, looking at him.

"You're angry," George said.

"I'm not angry," Thomas said, "I'm just—well maybe I am a little angry."

"I couldn't very well turn down the invitation," George said. "It would have appeared odd."

Thomas sat up, removing his cravat entirely and loosening the collar on his shirt. "I really don't know what you expect me to say." He rubbed at his eyes and then looked at George. "I asked you not to write to me and yet here you are."

"You said you forgave me," George said, "I just wanted to—"

"You made your choice," Thomas said, cutting him off.

"Goddammit, Thomas, you act as if I had a bloody choice." George's voice was trembling as if he was trying not to make too much noise but wanting to yell very loudly. "Could you stop being so idealistic for one second and understand that this is what has to happen? You'll be married too one day."

"Idealistic? You sound like my fucking father." He saw George open his mouth. "And by the way, it was sickening, the way you fawned over him at dinner. It's like I don't even know you anymore."

"Thomas," George said, his voice broken, "I'm sorry for what happened. I don't know how many times I can say it."

Thomas let out a sigh. It was actually exhausting, trying to accommodate George's feelings, trying to deny the anger welling inside him. "I understand," he said, "I truly do. I know that you had no choice but to marry. But you chose not to tell me and I just can’t seem to get over that."

George bowed his head, his voice shaking, "I know. I just—I didn't know how to."

"I can forgive you," Thomas said, "but I can't forget that you kept it from me until it was more convenient and comfortable for you."

"That is not fair, Thomas."

"Is it not?" Thomas asked, "it seems as if leaving your mother to make an announcement is very comfortable and it was extremely convenient to wait until you'd had your fill of me. Do you know I was actually going to ask you to fuck me that night? What a colossal waste of my virtue that would have been." 

It wasn't a lie. At King's College, there had been rumours of what men did together. There had been a number of them who had gone to the Molly houses. Those boys always said they had gone as a lark, but Thomas had been sure there was more to it than that. He had never been tempted, the Molly houses were for those who liked to lie with effeminate men, sometimes dressed as women. But he had often lay in his bed at night imagining George doing that to him. The thought had not seemed as frightening as it should have, all things considered.

George's face flushed, and he lowered his eyes, almost as if he couldn't bear to look Thomas in the face anymore. "I do not know what else I can do other than apologise."

"There's nothing you can do. Other than leave." 

His face fell, and Thomas felt a stabbing pain under his sternum. He wanted to reach out to him, to tell him it was all right and that they could take up where they left off and damn the consequences or Thomas’ hurt or anger. That they could just forget what had happened and move on. But it wasn't all right, and Thomas couldn't forget. He was tired of being the reasonable one. It made him feel as if he'd been scraped over hard metal, his flesh abraded. He wasn't the one who had lied.

"Can we ever see each other again?" George asked. "You're my oldest friend and I—."

"Perhaps one day," Thomas said, softly. "But not for a long while, I think. I know that seems unfair. I'm sorry this is hurting you too. I really am. But I just cannot do this." He smiled, a brief, sad smile and dug his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from saying any more. George nodded once, curtly, and walked out of the room.

Shaking, his whole body tense, Thomas opened the bottom drawer in the chest next to his bed and took out the bottle of gin that Charles Bennett from the debating club had procured for him. He opened it and took a large swig. The liquor burned on its way down and Thomas’ thighs felt instantly heavy, a pleasant ache settling into the muscles. He took another drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before putting the gin back and closing the drawer. He lay down again, his face flushed and his head hurting a bit less than it had. He closed his eyes for just a moment and drifted off. 

The noise of the front door closing woke him, and Thomas yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn't think he'd been asleep long, just a shallow doze. When he'd sufficiently roused himself, he opened his bedroom door. There was no noise coming from downstairs now and many of the lights had been extinguished. It made his decision easy, though he was shaking nonetheless and had to fortify himself with another pull on the gin bottle. 

It only took him a few minutes to dress again, fetching his scarf and pulling on his boots with shaking hands. He fastened his greatcoat, fumbling with the buttons several times until his hands co-operated. He walked downstairs, avoiding the left-hand side of the third stair down which always creaked. His father was most likely in the library now drinking brandy, and his mother doing needlepoint in the drawing room while the servants tidied up in the dining room. Closing the front door softly behind him, Thomas held his breath for a few seconds, waiting for someone to hear him. When no other light appeared, and no noise was heard, he began walking down to the stables. It was a cold night, but not freezing, and the slight breeze biting at Thomas’ face was almost pleasant, keeping him alert.

As he approached the stables, Thomas could see McCormack, hefting hay bales. His belly felt heavy, as if there was a lead weight inside it, but he pushed on, and walked in through the front entrance. McCormack had not heard him, so he cleared his throat.

McCormack turned, and when he saw Thomas he laughed, breathlessly. He threw one more hay bale onto the pile and sauntered towards him, stopping a few steps away. "What do you need, m'lord?" he asked. "It’s a little late for feeding horses, don't you think?"

"I didn't come here to feed the horses," Thomas said. "I actually don't quite know why I came, to be perfectly honest."

"I think you do," McCormack took a couple of steps towards him, "I think you know exactly why you did. What happened? You look—upset."

Thomas hadn't realised it, but his jaw was tight and his eyes stung from tears that were wanting to well up.

"That friend I mentioned. The one who could not follow through? He was at dinner tonight."

"Ah," McCormack said, his fingers flexing at his sides. "More than a friend, I take it?"

Thomas nodded. "The last time I saw him he—well let's just say that he chose not to tell me he was engaged to be married."

"And you're angry?" 

"Yes. And no. I honestly don't know what I feel." He laughed. "And I have no bloody idea why I'm telling you all this, but I just really don't want to be alone right now."

McCormack took another step toward him, and another, until their shoes were touching. He reached out and brushed his thumb across Thomas’ cheek, his rough thumb, callused and filthy. Thomas leaned into it.

"Is this what you want?" McCormack asked. "You want me?"

"Yes," Thomas said, firmer and louder than he meant to. It felt like it had been so long since anyone had touched him and he wanted, right then, anyone who wasn't George to be the one to do it. McCormack was gorgeous, he was there, and Thomas needed this. Needed to evict George well and truly from his mind and heart and body. 

"Come with me," McCormack said, holding out his hand to Thomas. "My quarters are certainly nothing to look at but I can't have Lord Thomas Hamilton rolling around in filth now, can I?"

It was like a punch to Thomas’ gut and he took McCormack's hand, walking just outside to the small building that housed the servants who looked after the stables. Who, at present, was the man whose hand he was holding.

"What's your name?" Thomas asked him. "Your given name, I mean."

"Sean." He opened the door and within seconds of closing it behind them he had Thomas pushed up against the back of it, one arm on either side of him, their hips flush against each other. "God, I've been wanting to do this since I first saw you. Thomas."

It was the first time Sean had called him by his proper name and it felt so good to hear him say it that Thomas reached out and grabbed him, his hands gripping those ridiculous curls, then kissed him, brushing his lips against Sean's. Sean kissed him back, and it wasn't soft or sweet like the kisses he'd shared with George. It was a rough kiss, wet and messy, with Sean's tongue pushing into Thomas’ mouth and his teeth grazing Thomas’ lips as he held Thomas against the back of the door with his hips. Sean was hard, his cock pressing into Thomas’ and this was exactly what he wanted, what he needed to forget George and how much he’d hurt him. He didn't want tender and he didn't want gentle and it seemed as if Sean was going to give Thomas what he did want, his fingers gripping Thomas’ hips.

Sean pulled back for a moment. "Are you sure you want this? Really sure?"

The room was warm. Sean had a small fireplace in his quarters, most likely to boil water and he had clearly been running it to heat the room. Thomas unbuttoned his coat and pulled his scarf off, letting both fall to the floor.

Thomas pulled Sean's hand to his crotch. "Does it feel like I'm sure?" 

"All right," Sean said, laughing, "then tell me what you want." He lowered his mouth to Thomas’ neck and kissed him, his teeth scraping along the pulse point in his throat. "Christ, your father would have me flogged if he knew what I wanted to do to you." The roughness of his voice went straight to Thomas’ cock.

"What do you want to do to me?" Thomas asked, panting a little.

"Things that a commoner should never presume to do to his betters." Sean held his face, his hands on Thomas’ cheeks. His eyes were dark with intent. It was dizzying.

"You want to fuck me," Thomas said, shocked at his own boldness. "Don't you? What if I told you you could?"

Sean groaned and placed a hand on Thomas’ throat, not soft, but not too firm either. Just _there_.

"You'd better be sure that's what you want," he said. He pressed his thumb into Thomas’ jawline, dragging it along muscle and bone. The ache was almost too much to bear, but it was a good ache, like pressing on a tight muscle. Thomas closed his eyes and hissed when Sean followed up his ministrations with his tongue, soothing the ache. "Noble boys don't ask their servants to fuck them, you know. That's improper."

"And it's improper for servants to take noble boys into their quarters and kiss them, and yet here we are."

Sean laughed. "There is a marked difference between those two things and you bloody well know it."

"But you want to, don't you?" Thomas asked and kissed Sean again, his tongue licking between Sean's lips. "And I want you to. Very much."

"I'm not going to fuck you tonight," Sean said, unbuttoning Thomas’ waistcoat, "not when you're messed up over that boy and with booze on your breath. But if you still want it after tonight, I will give you what you want. What I want."

His voice sounded raw and it made Thomas feel as if his knees had turned liquid. He couldn't help but feel a slight pang in his chest, but he held onto the agreement that was hinted at and shrugged off his unfastened waistcoat. Between the two of them they made short work of getting him undressed: his shirt disposed of so that he was naked from the top down. Sean ran his hands over Thomas’ unclothed frame and moved down his body, his mouth following the path his hands had made. It was almost too much; Sean's mouth on his sensitised skin. It felt sinful, decadent and Thomas dug his fingernails into his own thighs. He closed his eyes and groaned as Sean sucked gently, one at a time, on Thomas’ exposed, erect nipples.

There were boys at Cambridge who had fucked their servants. Sweet, receptive chambermaids who they claimed were as wanton and experienced as prostitutes. Thomas had hated the way they talked about them, as if they were objects, but Sean clearly had a lot of experience. With George it had always been gentle, questioning, and a tentative exploration. It was a culmination of years of friendship and flirting and wanting things they knew they probably shouldn't. This could not be more different. Sean knew how to pull pleasure out of Thomas’ body and they'd only known each other for days.

"You are so fucking perfect." Sean's breath was so warm against Thomas’ ear that it felt like a kiss, his accent so dreamy it was intoxicating.

Thomas’ cock ached in his breeches and it was almost unbearable. He had never felt like this before, like he might die if he remained untouched. Was this what it always was with men? Torturous and needy, wanting so much that it almost hurt? Sean's hands were at his waist now, unbuttoning Thomas’ breeches and untying his drawers. The fine hair on Thomas’ neck and arms stood on end when he felt Sean push what remained of his clothing down. 

"Take them off and lie on the bed, face down," Sean whispered, and Thomas bent down to pull off his boots and discard the rest of his clothes on the floor. He was completely naked now, the cool air of the room hit his skin and Thomas had never felt so vulnerable. He crossed the room to the basic, single bed and lay down, his head turned sideways so he could breathe. Thomas could feel Sean's breath on the back of his neck now, warm, almost shocking to his exposed skin. He bit his lips, trying to centre himself somehow, the hint of pain enough to give him some respite from the unceasing assault of sensation.

"Fuck. Just look at you," Sean breathed against his neck. He traced down the cleft of Thomas’ arse with his thumb and Thomas inhaled sharply. "Is this really what you want?"

"Yes," Thomas said. "Please."

A peer never begs or pleads, his father had once said, that would be vulgar. Thomas had realised that he was not, and never would be, his father. That he _was_ vulgar, his base desires too shocking for a man like his father to consider. Thomas wanted men with their beards and their rough hands and their heat, and he might marry but he would always want to be with men. George called it _a fond but distant memory_ , but for Thomas, this was his reality, and he knew now that he and George were more different than he could have ever imagined.

A filthy, godless reprobate indeed, and he would not apologise for it.

He pushed his arse back, and Sean pressed the pad of his thumb to Thomas’ hole. "If you still want this tomorrow, I will do it. I'll oil up my fingers and fuck you with them. Get my prick in you just like you asked for. I'd have to do something to make you quiet though, cover your mouth with my hand so you didn't make too much noise."

"Christ." Thomas knew he should be ashamed for it, this brazen wantonness, but he wasn't. He put his hand on his cock and started to stroke, it was wet at the tip and he swiped his thumb across it every time his hand fisted upwards. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead and his upper lip and Sean grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back so that they could kiss, a much rougher kiss than even before, almost violent in its intensity. Thomas’ body was humming, the pleasure sparking in his nerves, his breath becoming hitched. He moaned before he could stop himself, loud in the relative silence of the room. Sean shoved two fingers into his mouth and Thomas sucked on them, using them to swallow his noises. The fingers withdrew, but he had no time to voice his disappointment because Sean was tracing his wet fingers down Thomas’ lower back, down the crease of his arse. It was enough to push Thomas over the edge of pleasure, biting back a cry as he spent himself, his cock pulsing thick and white over his chest.

After he'd recovered enough, his breathing mostly returned to normal but his legs still shaky, he turned over on his back to face Sean, his eyes dark with need. Sean had begun to pleasure himself, standing by the foot of the bed with his breeches and smallclothes pushed down to his thighs. Thomas moved forward, dropped to his knees on the floor and took Sean's prick into his mouth, just like George had done for him. 

"God's sake, Thomas," Sean hissed, "your mouth—"

It was even better than Thomas could ever have imagined. There was something so sinful, so intimate in the mere act of taking another man into his mouth like this. Thomas’ jaw ached, his knees hurt from the roughness of the floor, and he had to struggle not to choke. He loved every second of it.

When Sean came, Thomas did not pull off like George had done. He swallowed down the bitter release and after he was done, Sean dragged him to his feet and kissed his own taste from Thomas’ lips.

If anyone could have seen him now: filthy with sweat and the evidence of his indiscretion everywhere, God only knew what they would have done. He would have been straight for the pillories or the gallows. The problem was that he wanted it very, very badly and the thrill, the risk of it all somehow made it even more enticing.

***

Thomas was twenty-five when he met Miranda Barlow at Robert Shirley's spring ball.

It had been an exceptionally dull evening; the Baron's parties were always lavish affairs but not particularly enjoyable for anyone under the age of fifty. Had it not been for the fact that Thomas would require the Baron's support when he was finally appointed to the House of Lords, he would have feigned a headache and left for more upbeat surroundings. Shirley was, most unfortunately, a teetotaller, which made the party even more depressing than it would have been otherwise. Thomas was no drunkard, but he did enjoy a drink or two for pleasure. Rather that than boredom which was, to Thomas, perhaps the most unbearable emotional state.

The only saving grace up until the point that Miranda came gliding elegantly into his life, had been Frederick Lyonsley. He had at least a couple of inches on Thomas’ height and close-cropped fair hair that he wore under his long brown wig. Freddie had been at Kings College two years ahead of him, and Thomas had always thought he was exceptionally attractive.

He had kissed Freddie that night in the Baron’s broom closet, with his hand holding the door shut.

"I feel as if this is a very precarious situation," Freddie had hissed in his ear. "What if the chambermaid comes back?"

"You raise a valid point," Thomas had said, raising a finger to Freddie's lips, "but just one more, I think, don't you?"

Freddie's lips were full and soft, and Thomas could not resist one, two, three quick kisses and a squeeze of his arse for good measure. Freddie had shivered, delightfully, and adjusted his wig.

"Find me later." He licked the corner of Freddie's mouth.

"You're a bloody tease, Thomas Hamilton," Freddie had said, a wide grin plastered on his face. "And I will absolutely see you later."

Thomas had opened the door a crack to see if anyone had been there. There had been no-one visible, so he had held the door open for Freddie to leave, then shut it again. Thomas had waited a couple of minutes, straightening his wig. Wiping his damp palms on his breeches, he had walked briskly out of the cupboard, straight into an absolutely stunning woman in a red gown. 

"Oh dear," he said, "I'm so dreadfully sorry, Miss—?"

"Barlow. Miranda Barlow. And you are Lord Thomas Hamilton," she said, curtsying. 

"Charmed," he said, and kissed her gloved hand. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"Not as much as you, I fear," she said, and leaned in to whisper, "Tell me, Lord Hamilton, do you often sneak off to broom closets with married men?"

Thomas coughed. "I beg your pardon?"

"I was watching you," she said, her mouth upturned in a sly grin, "I feel as though you have a lot to learn about subtlety, Lord Hamilton. I mean, you could at least try to conceal the evidence of your amorous exploits." She pointed to his mouth, which was sore to the touch, and, more tellingly, to his breeches.

Thomas looked down and smiled. "Touché, Miss Barlow. I was, in my defence, dreadfully bored."

"Well, now you have met me," she said, "so perhaps I can rescue you from your boredom in ways that are less—illegal, hmmm? And please, call me Miranda."

"Only if you call me Thomas." 

They sat on a chaise longue and talked for hours. Miranda was poised and beautiful and she made him laugh. There was something behind her eyes that he recognised when he looked at his own reflection. She was an outsider, too. Thomas had a great deal of acquaintances, lovers, and political allies. He did not have anyone who he considered a true friend. It was perhaps arrogant, but invariably the people that he met did not equal his intellect, and they certainly had no passion for debating with him on issues such as morality, religion, and societal progress. Miranda had a love for philosophy and literature that rivalled Thomas’ own. She was unlike any woman he'd ever met, and her intellect rivalled most of the men he knew.

"I'm so glad to have met you," Thomas said, "it will save me from dying of mundanity."

"I know exactly what you mean. Shall we venture out to the balcony for a spell?"

"Wouldn't that be terribly scandalous?" He asked, his mouth upturned. "People may talk, you know."

"I don't know if you've heard," she stage-whispered, "but people have been talking about me for years."

"An empty vessel makes the loudest sound, so they that have the least wit are the greatest babblers."

"Plato," she said, "you really are a remarkable man, Thomas Hamilton."

"You may have heard," Thomas said, "that they have been talking about me for years too. Apparently, I am eccentric. Or mad. Definitely blasphemous. Which is all code for—"

"Dalliances with men in broom closets?" Miranda whispered. "I sometimes have those too."

"Then we are, perhaps, soulmates." They stood up and began to walk towards the balcony 

"You really are," he said, pausing to take her arm, "the single-most interesting individual I've met in all of London."

She kept touching his arm and smiling that wicked smile as they walked. She was flirting with him, of course, but Thomas found that he did not mind one bit. He enjoyed being the centre of Miranda's attention. He felt as if he had finally met someone in London who was honest, forthright, and whose company he could enjoy. And, someone who did not seem to care a whit about what was proper and improper. It should have been shocking, really, that she knew everything about Thomas’ desires and was not, in any way, appalled by them. But it wasn’t shocking. It was a blessed relief.

The air on the balcony was refreshing after the cloying atmosphere of the party. As they paused to take in the view Thomas could hear hitched whispers around them, particularly from a group of nearby debutantes, spoiled and vacuous and nowhere near as beautiful as Miranda.

"I think," Miranda said, still holding his arm, "that we could be very good for each other, don't you?"

"I do," Thomas said, and leaned in to whisper, "Shall we give them something to really gossip about?" He kissed her reddened lips, softly, an arm around her waist.

They were married in the Summer of 1699, the year that Thomas was appointed to the House of Lords. Miranda had no parents, but she had a significant sum of money from her inheritance. His father did not like her, that much was clear from the outset, but Thomas had managed to convince him that she would be a good match. She was well-connected, and, despite the gossip that surrounded her virtue and the fact that she read books when she should be doing needlework, well-liked. His mother, had she not succumbed to consumption in his twenty-third year, would have adored her, gossip or not. Thomas’ chest ached whenever he thought too much about the two of them never having the chance to meet.

Miranda would argue with Thomas for hours on the virtues of liberalism, scolding him when he would take the opposite position for no other reason than he loved to see her flap her hands from sheer frustration. Thomas loved her for her fierceness, her intelligence and mostly because she did not give a damn what people thought of her.

The night they were wed, she kissed him softly and whispered, "You don't ever have to pretend with me, Thomas. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. And don't you dare ever be ashamed of who you are."

Thomas couldn’t help but think of George, then. He wondered whether his old friend had ever reached a similar arrangement with Celia. It was doubtful, given her background, that she was in any way similar to Miranda, that she was not only aware of George’s desires but supportive and enthusiastically so. It was just as likely that she didn’t even know, and Thomas found himself, again, thanking God for the literal collision that brought Miranda into his life. 

They lay together all night, arms around each other, and Thomas wept into her neck, but not from sadness. He stroked her hair and wondered exactly what he had done to deserve someone who loved him as much as she did.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas was thirty-two when he met his Navy liaison.

James McGraw was striking. Long ginger hair kept in a tidy queue, and pale skin dotted with light brown freckles, offset by the deep blue and white of his formal naval dress. If Thomas had met him anywhere else, not on the steps of Whitehall, and in any other capacity, he may have been tempted to stare a lot longer. As it was, he was amused by McGraw’s frankness, and that small hint of something that he could see in the careful control of his face when he spoke to Thomas: a slight animosity towards those more privileged than he. Not obvious, definitely masked, but still there nonetheless.

Lieutenant McGraw was one of the most fascinating men Thomas had ever met, because, while there were hints of something more under the surface he gave nothing away. Nothing was obvious, or externalised, and Thomas found himself watching him constantly. Trying to read his expressions, his tics. He was unlike any of the men that Thomas knew. He was exceedingly polite, even when he was being brutally honest, but when Thomas had looked beneath the military training and class deference, he had found something sharper. It made him want to dig even deeper, to see if what was under that tightly buttoned-down exterior was something altogether more intriguing, something dangerous.

After a few weeks of trying to fathom the man, Thomas did something that he was generally morally opposed to. He sought out gossip from Lieutenant William Pickering, an old school friend. Pickering had been a year ahead of Thomas at Eton, an athletic chap who excelled at sports more than study, but whose family connections had seen him advance very quickly in the Navy.

He met Pickering for coffee at Temple Bar. Thomas was not a regular coffee drinker, but, when he could, he loved to spend his time in the coffee houses. The intoxicating scent of the steaming, smoky beverage, the loud buzz of the conversation, and the diversity of the patronage were all things that attracted Thomas to these places. There was a vibrancy to them that he seldom saw elsewhere in London. Where else could a man like Thomas rub shoulders with politicians, Navy men, lawyers, and labourers all in the one place? 

"You know McGraw, Will? What do you make of him?" 

"He's a good Lieutenant," Pickering said sipping slowly at his drink. "A great tactician and really quite ruthless. He has the ear of Admiral Hennessey, too."

"But?" Thomas’ throat hurt from having to yell over the cacophony of so many simultaneous conversations.

"Nothing, really."

"Oh, come on Will. I know that look." Thomas glared at him through half-closed eyes. "What is it you really think of him?"

"It's nothing concrete," Pickering said, taking a sip of his coffee. "He just has a temper. Nothing serious, just sometimes there's something behind his eyes that worries some of the lads, that's all. I've heard tell that he broke an officer's nose once. Carnage everywhere, so I'm told."

"Really?" Thomas leaned forward, his elbow bent and his fingers resting on his mouth. "Tell me more."

"All I know," Pickering said, "is this officer had importuned a young woman and laid hands on her when she turned him down. McGraw found out and thrashed the man within an inch of his life. I hear tell it was brutal."

Thomas nibbled at his lower lip. It wasn't the first time that Thomas had heard rumblings about Lieutenant McGraw. He had written them off as jealousy, mostly. For a commoner to ascend the ranks so quickly, and with such a powerful ally as Hennessey, McGraw had to have accumulated a great deal of disdain and envy from those who viewed themselves superior. But this sounded plausible. It fit with what Thomas had observed about McGraw. That he was a man whose morality was of the utmost importance to him. And that there was something hidden in him, something fiery and wild.

It had not been something that Thomas could pin down. Only that there was something in the way that he looked sometimes, the hard set of his jaw, the way his facial muscles would flex, that belied something more complex about the man. A mask as it were. 

"You intrigue me," he said, in the middle of a particularly taxing discussion in his study.

"Do I?" James tilted his head to one side, a slight smile causing the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards, "What is it that intrigues you about me?"

He tapped his mouth with his index finger. "Everything."

"Oh, well that's very specific, Thomas," he said, one eyebrow raised.

James had finally agreed, after weeks of cajoling to call Thomas by his proper name and not 'my Lord'. The first time he had said it, it had made Thomas’ skin prickle, odd and unexpected. 

"You always say what's on your mind and yet— I can't help but feel as if there's something that you're holding back." Thomas leaned forward in his chair. "I hope you know you can be completely, brutally honest with me."

"I have never met anyone like you," James said, shaking his head.

"I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Well, given how mysterious I am, Thomas, perhaps I will leave you guessing." James smiled then, wide and warm, and Thomas’ throat felt dry, constricted.

"I think I would like to spend time with the Lieutenant," Miranda said one evening as they read together on the sofa. She wore only her nightgown, her feet resting on Thomas’ thighs. Thomas was in his smallclothes, a glass of red wine in his hand.

"And by spend time, you mean—"

"That I want to fuck him, yes." Thomas’ thighs tensed under her. Miranda had a vulgar mouth. It was a quality that Thomas greatly appreciated, usually, yet he couldn't bring himself to laugh as he usually would.

"Be gentle with him," he said, his voice suddenly raw. "He and I shall have to work together for some time and I'm quite fond of him."

"As am I," Miranda said, her eyes narrowed. "How fond?"

Thomas leaned forward and kissed her. "Don't you worry. Have at it. Just don't break him too much, my darling. I need him sharp."

Miranda laughed and stole Thomas’ wine glass, taking a sip. He tilted his head back and she took the invitation, slowly pouring the wine down his throat. Thomas’ lips were wet, sticky with the alcohol and he ran his thumb over them, then sucked the digit into his mouth, the sharp taste of the drink on his tongue. His head was somewhat fuzzy now, the warmth rising in his cheeks and his thighs less tense than before.

He returned to his book: Swift's _A Tale of a Tub_. But Thomas found it difficult to concentrate. He was distractible, staring at a spot on the rug and thinking about the last conversation he and James had had, arguing about the place of corporal punishment in the Navy. Thomas abhorred violence in all its forms, while James was more pragmatic about its uses, suggesting that punishment was a necessary evil when it came to discipline. They had agreed to cease the argument, when, after half an hour, Thomas could sense that James was irritated and possibly insulted that Thomas should question his beloved Navy so. After attempting to read the same sentence five times in a row, whilst dwelling on the way James had looked at him after their argument: tired, drawn and fed-up, Thomas slammed the book shut.

"Are you not enjoying it?" Miranda asked, absently twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"I am not in the mood," Thomas said. He leaned sideways to kiss her brow. "I think I might venture out for the evening."

"Have fun, dear," she said, removing her feet from Thomas’ leg. "And be careful, please."

***

When Thomas had been in his final year at Cambridge he had met Matthew Sharpe. Matthew had dark-brown hair, almond-shaped eyes and a scar on his temple from an accident he'd had as a child. He was arrogant, snobbish and Thomas didn't particularly like him, but he had a lovely arse and strong hands and didn't treat Thomas like he was made of glass. It was Matthew who had told him about St James’ Park and what men did there. That they would couple at night, out in the open air. Matthew had said that army men, gentlemen and commoners all would go there to seek the companionship of strangers. It had sounded dangerous, risky, and Thomas had been completely intrigued.

Discretion, according to Thomas’ father, was the single most important weapon to a politician. It was, he had said, the only means at a politician's disposal to ensure that there was never a cause to doubt the individual's integrity. Lack of discretion could lead to the discovery of weaknesses that could be exploited. For the most part, Thomas agreed. Discretion was a necessary evil, particularly for someone like him. He was always conscious of its necessity even when he chose to take risks that others would never have taken.

It tended to go in stages, his recklessness. When Thomas was being sensible, his affairs were always carefully curated, and the risk of discovery always taken into consideration. But boredom came easily to him and when he felt itchy in his own skin, unable to focus, that was when things became less logical, more impulsive.

When Thomas felt like that the only cure was to frequent the park. It was exhilarating to couple there, the risk of being discovered always present and Thomas shoved to his knees in the dirt by someone with rough hands and a filthy mouth. While it wasn't something that he needed all the time, it was a way of compartmentalising the risk he so often craved. Taking it away from his door and experiencing the pure pleasure of anonymity. It wasn't anything to do with guilt or shame, but the compulsion to find someone who was not like him for the pure pleasure of fucking. It was, ironically, much easier to have clandestine relations in a public place than it was to find a partner he could trust in his own daily life.

The man he found in the park that night was tall and broad. Thomas sucked him against a tree, his hands tight on the man's thighs as he thrust into Thomas’ mouth. He wasn't careful, he was rough, almost violent in his relentlessness, his hands gripping Thomas’ hair and holding his mouth in place to be fucked. It was exactly what Thomas needed. He wondered what James would think of him if he could see him now, filthy and wanton in the dirt. He would be shocked, disgusted perhaps at such behaviour. Thomas got his hand on his prick, and with James’ face in his mind's eye he came there in the dirt, the stranger spending down his throat.

Thomas found that now that he had imagined James in that capacity, now that he had seen his face during a most intimate moment, that he could no longer deny his feelings. He could no longer convince himself that his fascination with James, his constant scrutiny of him, was that of a friend. Now that the floodgates had been opened, it was all he could think about. James was a constant distraction and he had a way of looking at Thomas that displayed an intensity that was, for Thomas, almost maddening. The way that he stared into Thomas’ eyes with such focus made it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on anything other than the shape of his mouth, the way it curled up at the corner in a way that was almost haughty, almost arrogant. Thomas often found himself wondering, when he should have been concentrating on anything else, what it would feel like to be kissed by that mouth. James was often so guarded, only letting people see what he wanted them to see. Would his kisses be thoughtful, tentative? Would he hold back? Or would he be as forthright as he always was in their conversations, forceful with his mouth and hands?

The fact that he knew that James was bedding his wife made it all the more excruciating. Thomas had always shared everything with Miranda and she with him: they had never been shy with each other regarding their sexual exploits. Thomas knew that Miranda loved to be in control, that she would sit astride her lovers, that sometimes, depending on the man, she would demand they take her from behind, her face pushed into the mattress. Knowing what he did of his wife meant that it was easier to imagine what James looked like in the throes of passion: those strong hands on Miranda's hips, the keen muscles of his thighs flexing as she sat atop him, the curve of his mouth as he pressed it to her throat.

Thomas found himself venturing to the park on a far more regular basis and coming home with marks that he would hide under his ruffled shirt sleeves and high collars, marks made by the men from local military bases, perhaps even Navy men. Miranda would scowl at him and tell him to be careful, that he was taking far too many risks. How could he tell her the reason why, that he was completely obsessed with her ginger-haired Lieutenant and found himself in need of constant release?

There were times when he sat opposite James, trying to concentrate on their plans for Nassau, that Thomas was unable to think about anything other than the aching need he had for James to touch him. He found himself manufacturing situations where he would brush his fingers against James’ as he handed him documents, sit too close during a salon so that their thighs would touch. It was pathetic, pointless, but it was all he could have and it made Thomas feel alive, his nerve endings stimulated and his skin itching with want. 

He wasn't stupid enough to believe that James felt the same way. He was, after all, in Miranda's bed several times a week. Sometimes, though, Thomas would look up to see James staring at him in a way that was almost too focused, too watchful, and he allowed himself to wonder what would happen if he came out from behind his desk and stood in front of James, his mouth close enough for James to feel his breath. If the Lieutenant would lean forward and take Thomas’ face in his hands, kiss him as fiercely and passionately as Thomas wanted him to.

***

As it turned out, Thomas had not been completely off the mark. He had kissed James and James had kissed him back. It had been tentative, careful, but nonetheless a return of affection. He could still feel the imprint of James’ lips on his, the weight of his hands on Thomas’ back, the warmth of his cheek when Thomas had held him there. His body remembered it as if it had been branded on him. In fifteen years, Thomas had been kissed more times than he could count. Compared to many of those kisses, what he had shared with James was innocent. Full of longing, and a depth of emotion, but almost chaste by comparison. It didn't matter, it was still worth more than all of them.

Yet, when the kiss had ended, and James had retired back to his lodgings for the evening, Thomas was still no surer of James’ intentions as he had been before the disastrous dinner with his father.

Thomas instructed Richard, his driver, to take him to James’ lodgings, telling him he would be visiting his friend to discuss important business that would likely take most of the night and he would require a pick-up the next morning. Thomas hoped that he wasn't being too presumptuous, daring to hope that James would not reject him, but he had come too far to be cautious where James was concerned.

It took James long, long minutes to come to the door. He looked as if he had been napping, and Thomas’ heart swelled at the sight of him, blinking the sleep from his eyes. His hair was untied, falling about his shoulders in waves, and Thomas wanted to card his fingers through it, to see if it was as soft as it looked. He was also, maddeningly, shirtless to the waist, clad only in his underthings. Thomas found he was unable to avert his eyes when James absently scratched his chest. His chest was broader than Thomas could have imagined, the years of military training evident in his musculature. There was a smattering of ginger hair across his pectoral muscles, framing pale pink nipples, and his shoulders were covered in light brown freckles. Thomas swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and he wet his lips with his tongue.

"Thomas," James said, finally cutting through the silence. Thomas forced himself to look up, away from the miles of bare flesh on display to find James staring, an eyebrow raised and a sardonic twist to his mouth, "isn't it a bit late?"

"Very." He absently picked at a stray thread on his coat, aware that James’ eyes were on him. Thomas looked up, meeting that intense stare. "You're not going to leave me out here in the corridor, are you?" he asked.

"Your wife said almost exactly the same thing. Have you both been conspiring to torment me?" He opened the door wider and gestured for Thomas to enter.

"I assure you," Thomas said, removing his coat, "that we have not."

He looked around James’ lodgings. They were modest, and frank just like his friend. There was a small table, a couple of chairs, a wardrobe, a desk with a bookshelf, and a single bed with a chest at the foot of it. The plaster was peeling off the walls in chunks and the room was quite cold. Thomas lay his coat on the back of a chair and removed his gloves, hat, and wig. It felt wrong in this space, with this man, to be so thoroughly dressed. Thomas had never been so keenly aware of the imbalance between them.

James crossed his arms over his chest and Thomas couldn't help but stare again. James’ shoulders were tightly muscled, his stomach flat and his waist tapered. He wondered what James’ skin would feel like under his hands. How his strong body would feel pressed against Thomas’. He tore his eyes away but not fast enough and he was met by James’ gaze again.

"You're staring at me," James said, an eyebrow raised, "and very quiet. It's really very disconcerting."

"I am sorry." Thomas wiped his hands, clammy with sweat, on his breeches. "It is just that you're very distracting and I—"

"Yes?"

"Do you regret it?" Thomas asked. "I'm sorry. I did not intend to be so blunt, James, but it's very late and you are in quite a state of undress and I find myself uncharacteristically ineloquent."

James laughed and shook his head. "It is. Very late." He leaned against the wall opposite Thomas, his arms still crossed. 

"That is not an answer," Thomas said, leaning on the back of the chair. "Perhaps you should join me in the political realm, you clearly have a talent for evading hard questions." 

"No," James said. "I don't regret it. Not one whit. I just— I wasn't sure if maybe you did."

"If I did?" Thomas laughed. "Sorry. I'm not laughing at you, it's just—surely I have not been that subtle these last few months."

"Well, no, but—" James looked down at the floor. "I thought perhaps you would come to your senses."

Thomas moved closer, so that there were scant inches between the two men. The air was heavy between them, almost as if there was an obstacle between them, an invisible boundary. But boundaries, Thomas knew, often needed to be crossed and he reached out, stroking James’ cheek with his thumb.

"How could you think that, you ludicrous man?" Thomas asked, "I've been wanting to kiss you for ages and I have thought of nothing other than you for months now. I can't even begin to tell you how insane it's been making me. You just seemed a little—unsure."

"I was surprised," James admitted, "but don't take that for regret. I just felt as if I needed a moment."

"And now that the moment has passed?"

"I would have you know that I am very, very sure," James said. He put his hand on the back of Thomas’ neck and pulled him in. Thomas could feel James’ breath on his face, warm and inviting. The kiss earlier that evening had been gentle, tentative. This one was altogether different. Thomas felt as if all the air had been stolen from him as James kissed him deeply, his lips almost rough, his teeth scraping along Thomas’ bottom lip, and the pure pleasure of it connected directly to his groin. Thomas groaned and James licked in between his lips, coaxing Thomas to open for him, one hand still on the back of his neck, the other at Thomas’ waist, his large hands holding Thomas in place. James was different there, in that space, than he had been earlier. Thomas wondered if James had also held back for Miranda's sake, and Thomas could not help but feel a sharp pain in his chest for what she must have been feeling at that moment, seeing the two men she cared for most in the world cross a line that they could not, or would not, return from.

"God. You're really rather good at this." Thomas was near breathless. "And here I was thinking I was going to have to be gentle with you."

James laughed. "That will not be necessary."

"Oh good," Thomas said, "I'm glad we're of a like mind about this endeavour." He pressed his forehead to James’ and breathed, "Do you have any idea how much I've wanted this? Wanted you? I feel as if I cannot breathe every day when you walk out my door."

James grabbed at him, the look on his face one of lustful resolve, and it made Thomas’ legs feel weak, shaky, almost as if they couldn't hold his weight. James’ hands were everywhere, almost as if he was desperate to touch and he couldn't work out where to start: he pawed at Thomas’ face, his thumbs skating across his cheekbones, then dragged them down his throat, his fingernails raking down Thomas’ chest. 

"You're wearing far too many clothes," James said, in a rough, deep tone that made Thomas near giddy with want. James got his hands on Thomas’ cravat as he dove back in for another kiss, untying the knot in the front and unravelling the linen. Thomas in turn unfastened his shirt collar, exposing his neck to the cool air of James’ room.

"I came in here so sure," Thomas said, holding James’ face in his hands and pressing his mouth to James’ cheek, "and now I don't even know where to start." Sex, for Thomas, was easy. It was something he knew he was good at without even having to think about it. It seemed ludicrous that he of all people should be unsure in this moment. But it was _James_ and he meant more than Thomas had even been able to fully process, and so it was that he found himself hanging onto James, his arms now wrapped around him, holding him in a close embrace, his face pressed into James’ neck.

"I suppose you could start," James said, "by taking off your shirt." He held Thomas’ face with both hands, pushing him back a little so that they were looking at each other again, his thumbs tracing the outline of Thomas’ mouth. James kissed him again, his lips soft and his tongue pushing inside, hot and insistent. It felt like James was claiming him with his kisses, his tongue exploring every inch of Thomas’ mouth and every time James’ lips brushed against his it caused such desire to pool in Thomas’ belly that it was almost unbearable. 

"Practical advice is always welcome." Thomas smiled, and pulled his arms out of his shirt sleeves. His lips throbbed, full of blood, raw, and used. He had never been kissed for so long and with such intensity as this. James was as focused and thorough as he had imagined, even more so. But he needed more: months of wanting, of pining for this man making him near-mad with desire. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor, and he couldn't help but notice that James was assessing him, his eyes moving slowly over Thomas’ body.

"What the hell, Thomas. Your neck." James ran his thumb over the mottled skin near the base of Thomas’ throat. Thomas had forgotten the bruises were even there, but James’ thumb on them felt wonderful, a bone-deep ache that seemed to connect directly to his cock. Thomas groaned out loud and when James dug his thumb in a little deeper, it felt so good that Thomas could barely think, his body thrumming with heat.

"My God, what have you been up to?" James asked, digging his thumb deeper still, the pad of it pressing in and making Thomas hiss.

"St James' Park at night, it's a place where men go to—"

James laughed and shook his head. "I know what St James' Park is, Thomas, I am in the Navy, you know."

"Of course. I wasn't sure if—"

"If I would know that that is where men go to fuck other men?"

Thomas had been completely unprepared for how those words would sound coming out of James’ mouth, his voice low and seductive, and how Thomas’ gut would twist with the pleasure of it.

"I know that's what men do there, Thomas, I'm not naive. I just didn't think someone such as you would be one of them. Nor that you would allow yourself to be so—marked." 

James pressed down on the bruise again and Thomas moaned, his hips thrusting forward involuntarily. He closed his eyes and James’ mouth was on his neck, his teeth scraping over the purple-black marks. 

"Oh Lord, James," Thomas said, his whole body tense with wanting, "if you keep doing that this is going to be over very soon."

"Come to bed with me. Now."

James grabbed Thomas’ hand and pulled him forward. Thomas was thankful for James steadying him. It was as if his brain and his body were completely disconnected. "Cogito ergo sum," he whispered as James pulled him onto the bed with him.

"Thomas, for the love of God, this is no time for Descartes."

"I was merely commenting on the fact that my brain and my limbs do not seem to want to work in tandem." 

"Oh, shut up," James said, amused, his fingers on Thomas’ mouth.

Thomas let his mouth fall open enough to flick his tongue over the tips of James’ fingers and James hissed. "How many of them, Thomas? Christ, what did you let them do to you?" He sounded affected, his voice rough as if it had been scraped raw.

"Some. Several," Thomas said, kissing James’ fingers, "Does it matter? I'm here now."

"That's not what I mean. The thought of you, there, of all places. It is less shocking and more—"

Thomas smiled. "Ah, I see." He placed his hands on James’ waistband. "May I?"

James nodded, his eyes sharp and Thomas motioned for him to lie back. He unfastened James’ underthings and pulled them down past tightly-muscled thighs and calves. James’ legs were as pale and freckled as the rest of him and his cock was thick and beautiful, wet at the tip. Thomas’ jaw ached at the promise of it. He raised a hand to James’ face, skimmed his fingers over forehead, cheekbones and jawline.

"My god, but you're lovely. Do you have any idea—?" Thomas closed his eyes for a minute, tamping down the memory of a boy near a river long ago saying nearly those exact words to him. He traced James’ mouth with his fingers, and when James parted his lips Thomas leaned forward and licked slow and lewd into James’ mouth. He trailed his fingers down James’ torso, skimming over his smooth skin and brushing over his nipples, ribs and belly. Thomas was not rushing, determined to take enough time that he could remember every patch of skin, every part of James’ body.

"For God's sake, Thomas, stop teasing and just touch me."

Thomas laughed. "So impatient." Thomas let his fingers glide over the length of James’ cock, still as slow and steady as he liked. First, Thomas slid them over the tip of James’ prick with its beads of moisture, and paused to bring them up to his mouth, flicking his tongue over the wet pads of his fingers. James groaned, his eyes fixed on Thomas’.

"Christ," James said, his hands clutching the bedclothes. "What have you done to me?"

"I feel as if I could be asking you that question."

"Tell me," he repeated, "about the men you met in the park." 

Thomas felt as if he should catalogue this for future use, James’ fixation on the men that Thomas had coupled with before him. It thrilled Thomas to know that James was so intrigued. He wondered if James would ever go there: he had after all sensed danger within him. But for James the risk would be far greater, the Naval base in close vicinity and no family name to protect him. Thomas lavished attention on James’ thick shaft, trailing his fingers downwards until he reached the mess of ginger curls at the base. He made a fist and began to stroke, moving up and down the shaft, slow, rough strokes that had James making the most delightful, bitten-off groans. James’ head was thrown back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. It was a gorgeous sight: James overcome with pleasure like this, his lips parted, his breathing audible, and the gorgeous flush on his cheeks.

"What would you like to know?" Thomas replied. "What I went there for? So inappropriate, isn't it? So unbecoming of a peer. But I let them do it, let them hold me down and fuck me right there in the dirt while I wished it was you. And yes, sometimes I let them mark me: my throat, or my wrists. I don't always like it that rough but occasionally—"

"Jesus." James’ eyes opened, and he reached forward, cupping the back of Thomas’ neck to pull him in. "I had no idea you had such a filthy, wanton mouth. Though it's hard to shut you up most days so perhaps it shouldn't be—fuck—, a surprise."

"I let them do what they wanted," Thomas said, "so that I could stop thinking about you for one minute, stop thinking about what you would look like fucking my wife. It didn't work, obviously." He smiled, wide, and bowed his head a little, looking up at James through his eyelashes. 

"God, Thomas," James said, his breathing hitched, his fingers resting on Thomas’ lips, "when you look at me like that, I—"

"Yes?"

"You _undo_ me."

James’ words lit a fire in Thomas that felt almost untameable. He kissed James with absolute abandon, his free hand clutching a handful of his hair, holding him in place so he could feast on his mouth as he touched him. James groaned, thrusting his hips forward, driving his prick into Thomas’ hand. It made Thomas weak, the sight of him like this and their wanton, open-mouthed kisses that left his own cock aching with the need to be touched. But this was for James and he could wait for his own pleasure. There was something perversely exciting in prolonging it as much as possible, anyway, delaying his pleasure to the point where it was almost unbearable. Thomas increased the speed of his strokes, biting his lip when his wrist started to ache and seize up, and breathing through the discomfort, just as he had when he had broken his arm all those years ago. James was close now, his hands grabbing frantically at Thomas, his fingers twisting in Thomas’ hair, trailing down his body to brush his thumbs over Thomas’ nipples. 

"Christ," Thomas hissed, "how am I supposed to—" He pulled one of James’ hands up to his face and sucked two of his fingers into his mouth, sucked them all the way down to the root. Thomas moaned around James’ fingers, sliding them in and out of his mouth and James thrust his hips upward and came, messy and slick on his own chest.

Seeing James’ face like that, twisted in pleasure as he spent was almost overwhelming. Thomas couldn't wait any longer and he unfastened his breeches and pulled them down, pulled his underclothes off with them. He was already so hard he ached, and he knelt on the bed stripping his cock with his hand which, thank God, because the pain in his wrist was almost debilitating, James pushed away and replaced with his own. James’ hand was rougher than his: rope calluses and scars and it felt unbelievable on Thomas’ sensitised prick. James drove Thomas to completion, fast, his fist working rapidly and their eyes locked on each other the whole time. 

Thomas bit his lip and James leaned in, his lips on Thomas’ ear and whispered, "Make all the noise you want, Thomas," his free hand clapped over Thomas’ mouth and when Thomas started to come he yelled obscenities into the palm of James’ rough hand, over and over until he was finally quiet. He couldn’t help but think about it, the times as a boy that he had forced himself to be quiet, his own hand hot and heavy on his own mouth. It had never felt like this.

After they had cleaned up, Thomas lay with his head on James’ chest and told him everything: about George who broke his heart, about Sean who he offered himself to, and about all the other men after, rich and poor, none of whom even came close to being worth losing himself over. James listened with that stoic, steadfast expression he always kept when Thomas was talking about something important. There was something completely exhilarating about it, the way that James made Thomas feel as if he was the only one in the room, even when they were in a room full of Whitehall's finest. Here, however, it was even more focused, James’ stare, his undivided loyalty. Thomas had never felt so exposed.

When Thomas woke, sometime just before dawn, James was already awake and staring at him. He hadn't even realised that he had fallen asleep and his neck ached from being locked in the same position. Their faces were so close together that he could feel James’ breath on his face every time he exhaled. Thomas moved back slightly and smiled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

"How long have you been watching me? It isn't fair that you should gain such an advantage, seeing me when I first wake up when I'm all—" He waved his hand uselessly.

"Lord Thomas Hamilton, caught off guard," James said. "However will you recover?"

"What were you thinking?" Thomas reached out, tentatively, and brushed his thumb over James’ cheek.

"About you. And the men you've been with. I have so many questions."

"Then ask. I feel as if given the circumstances," he pointed to James’ nakedness and then to his own, "being shy about it would be disingenuous, don't you?"

James inhaled, deeply. "You say that you like to be fucked. Is that not beneath a peer?"

Thomas laughed. "Since when, dear James, have you known me to conform to what is expected of a peer. Besides, have you not fucked my wife in such a manner?"

James’ face flushed. It was ridiculously endearing. "Well, yes. But that's different."

"How is it different?" Thomas asked. "An arse is an arse and a cock is a cock."

"Oh, you are far too skilled at pedantry, aren't you? I can tell I will not win this debate."

"Does it bother you," Thomas asked, "that I like to take it up the arse?"

"For someone with such breeding, you are shamelessly vulgar." 

"Shame," Thomas said, "is an excessively wasteful emotional state." He reached out to trace the outside of James’ lips with his thumb. "Did you enjoy it?" Thomas asked, "fucking her like that? I can guarantee I would enjoy it even more than she did."

James’ eyes flashed with something dark and all-consuming. "You _do_ enjoy it, don't you?" 

Thomas could see that James was shifting a little, trying to decide if he should move closer or not. Thomas took the decision out of his hands and moved across the bed to close the gap between them. He put a hand on James’ waist, his thumb stroking James’ hipbone. "I can assure you, I enjoy nothing more than being held down and soundly buggered."

"Your mouth would make a whore blush, my Lord." 

"Or a sailor?"

James laughed, deep and throaty. His cheeks had flushed a delightful shade of red, as if to prove Thomas’ point. "That too." He flipped Thomas over so he was lying on his back. James kissed him then, deep and dizzying, his strong hand holding Thomas’ jaw in place. It was enough to make Thomas fully hard again, his want evident to James’ eyes and James smiled, that arrogant upturned smile that always made Thomas giddy.

"I find myself jealous of the men who marked your body," James said. “I know I have no right to be, and yet—" he trailed his fingers down to the blood-dark bruises, and Thomas’ mouth parted at the contact, desire pooling in his groin.

"You have more right than anyone," Thomas said, his voice rough with intent, "I could not listen to Miranda tell me of what you and she did together, either. I have never begrudged her pleasure, and yet to hear it? It was unbearable." 

James pressed a kiss to his neck, his teeth scraping over the bruises. "You take my breath away. You have for months. I just did not know how to tell you, or if I even should."

Thomas put his hands on James’ face and lifted his head so they were both able to gaze on each other. "Will you have me, James? I would never ask you for anything that you could not or would not give, but—"

James put his fingers to Thomas’ mouth, "For once in your life, Thomas, please stop talking, or the carriage will arrive and we will miss our opportunity." James was hard again, pressed against Thomas’ thigh and wet at the tip. Thomas resisted the urge to move, to cant his hips so that he could slide his leg against James’ prick. He sensed that it would be over before it had begun, otherwise.

James moved to the end of the bed and opened the chest, which allowed Thomas an unobstructed view of his, frankly, spectacular arse before James returned with a small glass bottle of oil. Thomas grinned.

"What?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

"Nothing," Thomas said. "I am not allowed to talk, after all."

"You're such a shit," James said, shaking his head. "Turn over."

"Not yet." He took the bottle from James’ hand, shoving a pillow under his own arse. "Watch."

Thomas removed the stopper and poured the oil onto his fingers. It was unctuous and slick and when he looked at James, his expression was so ardent that Thomas almost had to look away. James’ open desire was intoxicating and it made Thomas shiver, the hair on his arms and neck prickling. He replaced the stopper, put the bottle back in James’ hand, and dropped his own hand to his chest, trailing his oil-soaked fingers down, slowly, his thighs wide and allowing himself one stroke of his prick before he trailed lower still, sliding his fingers inside.

"Christ," James said, his hands clenching at his sides, his gaze fixed on Thomas’ fingers moving in and out of his arse. "You're so fucking beautiful." 

James’ voice sounded so raw, so completely undone that it made Thomas reach for him with his other hand, his fingers grabbing for him, coaxing James’ mouth to open. He slid his fingers into James’ warm, wet mouth in tandem with the fingers inside him, working him open. He added another finger, slippery with oil to the others and the stretch was almost too much, but James was not small and Thomas wanted to be ready for him. It dawned on him then that James, his dashing Lieutenant, was about to do what he had dreamed about for months. It was almost as if the magnitude had escaped him until that moment. But now? The reality of it was threatening to take his breath away. James sucked Thomas’ fingers into his mouth, scraped them with his teeth and flicked his tongue over the tips of them as he pulled them out and brought them to Thomas’ lips. 

"I'm ready," Thomas said, sliding his fingers out, slow and careful.

James nodded and unstoppered the bottle. Thomas couldn't help but stare as James shivered, his hand sliding oil onto his swollen prick. Thomas rolled onto his stomach and rose to his knees, leaning on his elbows. 

"It'll be easier like this," he said, "but next time I want to see your face."

"God, yes," James said, his warm breath on Thomas’ back. "Let me know if it hurts."

Thomas hissed at the first slide of James’ cock into him. James was careful, working himself in inch by careful inch, but the stretch still burned, and Thomas took in great lungfuls of air, breathing through the worst of it. There was always a moment when the intensity of being filled like this changed, when the sensation shifted from almost unbearable to exquisite, and when James was all the way in, his groin fully seated against Thomas, it was so incredible that Thomas wanted to cry. 

"Are you all right?" James asked, his voice hitched.

"More than all right." He reached back for James, and held him there, saying, "Move."

"You feel—" James said as he began to fuck Thomas, going in deep every time, the rough slide of his cock rubbing that sweet spot inside, "heavenly."

So blasphemous, so wrong, and yet Thomas couldn't help but whimper, his fingers clutching the bedsheets as he moved with James, his hips undulating. James was so utterly good at this, just like Thomas had always dreamed he would be. He fucked like he did everything: direct, intense, utterly focused, and exceptionally competent. 

"You have," James said, "been driving me mad for months. The teasing—my God, always touching me."

"And you," Thomas groaned, "the way you would look at me sometimes. It made me dare hope—"

"I'm close, Thomas, so close," James murmured into the skin of his back, "do you want me to—retreat?"

"I want—you—to kiss me."

James grabbed Thomas and pulled his head back, one callused hand on his chin. He kissed Thomas, lewd and open, their tongues sliding against each other. It was almost too much, like being fucked two ways, James’ tongue so deep in his mouth, swallowing his moans and that cock fucking him relentlessly deep, dragging perfectly inside him. It had never felt like this before: bone-deep need and a partner who seemed to know just how to wring every bit of pleasure out of his body.

"God," Thomas said, between kisses, "you're so good at this, James. You were fucking made for this." He fell forward, it was difficult to maintain his balance when James was slamming into him over and over, but James held him up, both hands on Thomas’ hips now as he drove into him. Thomas wanted to sob from how good it felt, every nerve ending oversensitised and his groin flooded with heat. He hadn't touched his own prick, and he could, but it was too much, too much sensation already, he was being completely stripped bare. He left his hands where they were, grabbing mindlessly at the bedclothes and writhing, softly moaning, as if he were the most base, filthy creature imaginable.

"Jesus, Thomas. I've never— wanted—anyone like this." James was beginning to sound frantic, his thrusts becoming erratic and his breathing shallow, and it felt so good, being filled and stretched like this, James pressed against him, holding him tight by the hips. Thomas’ arms ached from holding himself up, his forehead was thick with sweat and it had started dripping down onto his eyelashes. He could only imagine what he looked like, his hips moving back and forward with James’, groaning every time James’ cock rubbed that most sensitive spot. Wanton and desperate and never wanting it to end. 

"You are—incredible," Thomas said, barely able to speak. "I want to feel you spend in me, James, do it. I need it."

James was so close now, his breathy moans increasing in volume and Thomas wondered if they were being too loud, whether James’ poor landlady was somewhere, horribly scandalised, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when James was slamming in one last time, his mouth on Thomas’ shoulder and groaning as he came, deep inside him.

James stayed there for a moment, panting against Thomas’ back, the two of them slick with sweat, and Thomas turned his head again to kiss him, a brief slide of lips against James’, his tongue pressed to the corner of James’ mouth.

"You are," James said as he pulled out, panting, "entirely incapable of shutting that bloody wanton mouth, even for a second, aren't you?" He flipped Thomas onto his back and fisted his cock. He spread his thighs for James, his teeth biting into his lower lip. Thomas was already so close, the sheer pleasure of being fucked so well by this perfect, wonderful man and now that he could see James’ face, he could see just how much James had been affected too: his face flushed, his hair a mess and the sheen of sweat on him.

"I am—incapable—yes."

"Except maybe now, I think," James said, and lowered his sly mouth onto Thomas’ prick, pushing two fingers back inside him where he was used and slick, wet with James’ release.

"Oh God. Oh fuck, James."

James’ mouth was hot and wet and so relentless as he worked Thomas’ cock, fucking him all over again with his precise, knowing fingers. After everything, the absolute assault on his senses, Thomas knew that he would not be able to endure much more. He put his hands on the back of James’ head, running his fingers through that beautiful, lush ginger hair and thrusting as gently as he could into James’ mouth as those wonderful, rough fingers worked inside him. It was good, so good, being completely taken like this, taken and wrecked by someone he was so utterly and completely besotted with. Thomas closed his eyes, his head thrown back on the pillow. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat and he made the most pathetic, bitten-off whimpers, incapable of much else, his voice as scraped raw as the rest of him. He could feel the pleasure building in his groin, his belly and every nerve ending he was aware of. He hit James on the shoulder and groaned, "You'd better—" but James wasn't listening or didn't care. Thomas bit down on his fist, muffling his frantic moans as waves of pleasure surged in him and he spent in James’ mouth. James took it, took all of it, swallowed down Thomas’ release. He didn’t stop though, continuing to fuck Thomas with deft fingers, in and out, dragging perfectly inside him. Finally, Thomas stilled. He was an absolute disaster, sore, filthy with sweat and the evidence of his release. The only sound in the room for long, long minutes was that of his hitched breathing. 

"Good Lord," Thomas said, finally, and covered his eyes with his hands. "You cannot presume to tell me you've never done that before, because—"

“Never like this.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I feel as if this topic requires much more discussion, my stoic friend.”

"Perhaps someday I will regale you with tales of naval debauchery, Thomas,” James said. “But not right now, I think."

"I look forward to it." He was still trying to regain his breath when James lay down next to him, kissing him once, tender and soft, his hand holding Thomas’ jaw.

"You are everything to me," James said to him, his forehead pressed against Thomas’. "You must know that."

"And you to me, dear Lieutenant." 

Thomas had never been loved so thoroughly, so completely, and so rapidly by anyone in his life as he was by James McGraw. When his father’s men took him away, their rough hands pushing him and the foul taste of laudanum forced down his throat, Thomas vowed that he would never love another man.

He lied.

Thomas was forty-two when he fell in love with Captain James Flint: a notorious, murderous pirate who held him and kissed him in a sugar cane field, making him laugh again.


End file.
